JOAN  THURSDAY 

LOUIS  JOSEPH  VANCE 


^2-XC^. 


<X&^4  X^/^T 


JOAN  THUKSDAY 


"  Oh,"  she  said,  "  I  guess  I  '11  do,  all  right,  all  right !  " 

FRONTISPIECE.     See  Page  14 


JOAN  THURSDAY 


BY 

LOUIS  JOSEPH  VANCE 


WITH  ILLUSTRATIONS  BY 

OSCAR  CESARE 


BOSTON 

LITTLE,  BROWN,  AND  COMPANY 
1913 


Copyright,  191S, 
BY  Louis  JOSEPH  VANCB. 


All  rights  reserved,  including  those  of  translation  into  foreign 
languages,  including  the  Scandinavian. 


Published,  September,  1913. 
Reprinted,  September,  1913. 
Reprinted,  December,  1913. 


THE  UNIVERSITY  PRESS,  CAMBRIDGE,  U.  8.  A. 


TO 
GRANT  RICHARDS 


2228431 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

"Oh,"  she  said,  "I  guess  I'll  do,  all  right,  all  right!" 

Frontispiece 

"What's  the  matter  with  you,  anyway?"  he  de- 
manded, hotly Page    123 

"Miss  Thursday  —  my  fiancee.     Joan,  this  is  Mrs. 

Marbridge" "      208 

The  door  slammed.     He  was  gone "      270 


JOAN  THURSDAY 


SHE  stood  on  the  southeast  corner  of  Broadway  at 
Twenty-second  Street,  waiting  for  a  northbound  car  with 
a  vacant  seat.  She  had  been  on  her  feet  all  day  and  was 
very  tired,  so  tired  that  the  prospect  of  being  obliged  to 
stand  all  the  way  uptown  seemed  quite  intolerable.  And 
so,  though  quick  with  impatience  to  get  home  and  "  have 
it  over  with,"  she  chose  to  wait. 

Up  out  of  the  south,  from  lower  Broadway  and  the 
sweatshop  purlieus  of  Union  Square,  defiled  an  unending 
procession  of  surface  cars,  without  exception  dark  with 
massed  humanity.  Pausing  momentarily  before  the  corner 
where  the  girl  was  waiting  (as  if  mockingly  submitting 
themselves  to  the  appraisal  of  her  alert  eyes)  one  after 
another  received  the  signal  of  the  switchman  beyond  the 
northern  crossing  and  ground  sluggishly  on.  Not  one  but 
was  crowded  to  the  guards,  affording  the  girl  no  excuse  for 
leaving  her  position. 

She  waited  on,  her  growing  impatience  as  imperceptible 
as  her  fatigue :  neither  of  them  discernible  to  those  many 
transient  stares  which  she  received  with  a  semblance  of 
blank  indifference  that  was,  in  reality,  not  devoid  of  con- 
sciousness. Youth  will  not  be  overlooked;  reinforced  by 
an  abounding  vitality,  such  as  hers,  it  becomes  imperious. 
This  girl  was  as  pretty  as  she  was  poor,  and  as  young. 

Judged  by  her  appearance,  she  might  have  been  any- 
where between  sixteen  and  twenty  years  of  age.  She  was, 
in  fact,  something  over  eighteen,  and  at  heart  more  nearly 
a  child  than  this  age  might  be  taken  to  imply  —  more  a 


2  JOAN    THURSDAY 

child  than  any  who  knew  her  suspected.  She  herself  sus- 
pected it  least  of  all. 

She  looked  what  she  liked  to  believe  herself,  a  young 
woman  of  considerable  experience  with  life.  Simple,  and 
even  cheap,  her  garments  still  owned  a  certain  dis- 
tinction which  she  would  without  hesitation  have  termed 
"  stylish  " :  a  quality  of  smartness  which  somehow  con- 
trived not  incongruously  to  associate  with  inferior  mate- 
rials. Her  shirtwaist  was  of  opaque  linen,  pleated,  and 
while  not  laundry-fresh  was  still  presentable;  her  skirt 
fitted  her  hips  snugly,  and  fell  in  graceful  lines  to  a  point 
something  short  of  her  low  tan  shoes,  showing  stockings  of 
a  texture  at  once  coarse  and  sheer ;  to  her  hat,  an  ordinary 
straw  simply  trimmed  with  a  band  and  chou  of  ribbon,  she 
had  lent  some  little  factitious  character  by  deftly  twisting 
it  a  trifle  out  of  the  prevailing  shape.  Over  one  arm  she 
carried  a  coat  of  the  same  material  as  her  skirt,  and  in 
her  hand  a  well-worn  handbag  of  imitation  leather,  rather 
too  large,  and  decorated  with  a  monogram  of  two  initials 
in  German  silver.  The  initials  were  J-T :  her  name  was 
Joan  Thursby. 

Uniform  with  a  thousand  sisters  of  the  shop-counters, 
she  was  yet  mysteriously  different.  Men  looked  twice  in 
passing;  after  passing  some  turned  to  look  again. 

Her  face,  tinted  by  the  glow  of  the  western  sky,  was  by 
no  means  poor  in  native  colour:  a  shade  thin,  its  regular 
features  held  a  promise,  vague,  fugitive,  and  provoking. 
Her  hair  was  a  brown  which  hardly  escaped  being  ruddy, 
and  her  skin  matched  it,  lacking  alike  the  dusky  warmth 
of  the  brune  and  the  purity  of  the  blonde.  She  was  neither 
tall  nor  short,  but  seemed  misleadingly  smaller  than  she 
was  in  fact,  thanks  to  the  slightness  of  a  body  more 
stupidly  nourished  than  under-nourished  or  immature. 
Her  eyes  were  brown  and  large,  and  they  were  very  beau- 
tiful indeed  when  divorced  from  the  vacancy  of  weary 
thinking. 

It  was  only  in  this  look  of  the  unthinking  toiler  that 


JOAN    THURSDAY  3 

unconsciously  she  confessed  Her  immense  fatigue.  Her 
features  were  relaxed  into  lines  and  contours  of  apathy. 
She  seemed  neither  to  think  nor  even  to  be  capable  of 
much  sustained  thought.  Yet  she  was  thinking,  and  that 
very  intensely  if  unconsciously.  Her  mind  was  not  only 
active  but  was  one  of  considerable  latent  capacity:  some- 
thing which  she  did  not  in  the  least  suspect;  indeed,  it 
had  never  occurred  to  Joan  to  debate  her  mental  limita- 
tions. Her  thoughts  were  as  a  rule  more  emotional  than 
psychical:  as  now,  when  she  was  intensely  preoccupied 
with  pondering  how  she  was  to  explain  at  home  the  loss 
of  her  position,  and  what  would  be  said  to  her,  and  how 
she  would  feel  when  all  had  been  said  .  .  .  and  what  she 
would  then  do.  .  .  . 

Daylight  was  slowly  fading.  Though  it  was  only  half- 
after  six  of  an  evening  in  June,  the  sun  was  already  in- 
visible, smudged  out  by  a  portentous  bank  of  purplish 
cloud  whose  profile  was  edged  with  fire-of-gold  against  a 
sky  of  tarnished  blue  —  a  sky  that  seemed  dimmed  with 
the  sweat  of  day-long  heat  and  toil.  The  city  air  was 
close  and  moveless,  and  the  cloud-bank  was  lifting  very 
slowly  from  behind  the  Jersey  hills;  it  might  be  several 
hours  before  the  promised  storm  would  break  and  bring 
relief  to  a  parched  and  weary  people. 

At  length  despairing  of  her  desire,  the  girl  moved  out 
to  the  middle  of  the  street  and  boarded  the  next  open  car 
of  the  Lexington  Avenue  line. 

She  was  able  to  find  standing-room  only  between  two 
seats  toward  the  rear,  where  smoking  was  permitted.  She 
stood  just  inside  the  running-board,  grasping  the  back  of 
the  forward  seat.  Her  hand  rested  between  the  shoulders 
of  two  men.  She  was  the  only  woman  in  that  section. 
Behind  her  were  ten  masculine  knees  in  a  row,  before 
her  five  masculine  heads:  ten  men  crowding  the  two 
transverse  benches,  some  smoking,  all  stolidly  absorbed  in 
newspapers  and  indifferent  to  the  intrusion  of  a  woman. 
None  dreamed  of  offering  the  girl  a  seat ;  nor  did  she  find 


4  JOAN    THURSDAY 

this  anything  remarkable,  in  whom  use  had  bred  the  habit 
of  accepting  without  question  such  everyday  phenomena. 
If  she  was  weary,  so  were  the  men ;  if  she  desired  the  con- 
sideration due  her  sex,  then  must  she  enfranchise  herself 
from  the  sexless  struggle  for  a  living  wage.  .  .  . 

The  car,  swerving  into  Twenty-third  Street,  plunged  on 
to  and  turned  north  on  Lexington  Avenue.  Thereafter  its 
progress  consisted  of  a  series  of  frantic  leaps  from  street- 
corner  to  street-corner.  When  it  was  in  motion,  there  was 
a  grateful  rush  of  air ;  when  at  pause,  the  heat  was  stifling 
and  the  fumes  of  cigarettes,  pipes,  and  cheap  cigars  blended 
to  manufacture  a  mephitic  reek.  A  slight  sweat  dewed  the 
face  of  the  girl,  and  her  colour  faded  to  pallor.  Her  feet 
and  legs  were  aching,  her  back  ached  with  much  lifting 
of  boxes  to  and  from  shelves,  her  head  ached  —  chiefly 
because  of  the  inevitable  malnutrition  of  a  shop-girl's 
lunch. 

From  time  to  time  more  passengers  were  taken  on;  a 
lesser  number  alighted :  Joan  found  herself  obliged  to  edge 
farther  in  between  the  rank  of  knees  and  the  rigid  back 
of  the  forward  seat.  By  the  time  the  car  crossed  Forty- 
second  Street,  she  was  at  the  inside  guard-rail:  ten  per- 
sons, half  of  them  standing,  were  occupying  a  space  meant 
for  five. 

It  was  then,  or  only  a  trifle  later,  that  she  became 
conscious  of  the  knee  which  the  man  behind  her  was 
purposely  pressing  against  her.  Then  for  a  minute  or 
two  she  was  let  alone.  But  she  was  sick  with  apprehen- 
sion. .  .  . 

She  stood  it  as  long  as  she  could.  Then  abruptly  she 
twisted  round  and  faced  her  persecutor. 

Before  her  eyes,  half  blinded  by  rage  and  disgust,  his 
face  swam  like  the  mask  of  an  incubus  —  a  blur  of  red 
flesh  fixed  in  an  insolent  smirk. 

She  was  dimly  aware  of  curious  glances  lifting  to  the 
sound  of  her  tremulous  voice: 

"  Must  I  leave  this  car  ?    Or  will  you  let  me  alone  ?  " 


JOAN    THURSDAY  5 

There  was  the  pause  of  an  instant;  then  she  had  her 
answer  in  a  tone  of  truculent  contempt: 

"  Ah,  wha's  the  matter  with  you,  anyhow  ?  " 

She  choked,  stammering,  and  looked  round  in  despair. 
But  the  man  at  her  elbow  was  grinning  with  open  amuse- 
ment, and  another,  seated  beside  her  tormentor,  was  pre- 
tending to  notice  nothing,  his  nose  buried  in  a  news- 
paper. 

"  If  y'u  don't  like  the  goin',  sister,  why  doncha  get  off 
V  walk  ? " 

This  from  him  who  had  compelled  that  frantic  protest. 

With  a  lurch,  the  car  stopped ;  and  as  it  did  so  the  girl 
turned  impulsively,  grasped  the  guard-rail,  swung  her  lithe 
body  between  it  and  the  floor  of  the  car,  and  dropped 
to  the  cobbles  between  the  tracks.  She  staggered  a  foot 
or  two  away,  followed  by  an  indistinguishable  taunt 
amid  derisive  laughter.  Fortunately  there  was  no  car  bear- 
ing down  on  the  southbound  track  to  endanger  her;  while 
that  which  she  had  left  flung  away  as,  recovering,  she  ran 
to  the  sidewalk. 

She  began  to  trudge  northward.  The  first  street  lamp 
she  encountered  told  her  she  had  alighted  at  Forty-seventh 
Street,  and  had  another  mile  and  a  half  to  walk.  But 
with  all  her  weariness,  she  no  longer  thought  of  riding; 
it  was  impossible  .  .  .  she  could  never  escape  annoyance 
.  .  .  men  just  would  n't  let  her  alone  .  .  . 

Men!  .  .  . 

Shuddering  imperceptibly,  her  eyes  hot  with  tears  of 
shame  and  indignation,  she  walked  rapidly,  anxious  to 
gain  the  refuge  of  her  home,  to  be  secure,  for  a  time  at 
least,  from  Man.  .  .  . 

They  called  themselves  Men!  She  despised  them  all  — 
all!  Beasts!  .  .  .  What  had  she  ever  done?  ...  It 
was  n't  as  if  this  was  the  first  time :  they  were  always 
plaguing  her:  hardly  a  day  passed  .  .  .  Well,  anyway, 
never  a  week.  ...  It  was  n't  her  fault  if  she  was  pretty : 
she  never  even  so  much  as  looked  at  them :  but  they  kept 


6  JOAN    THURSDAY 

on  staring  .  .  .  nudging  .  .  .  She  didn't  believe  there 
was  a  decent  fellow  living  .  .  .  except,  of  course,  That 
One  ... 

He  was  different ;  at  least,  he  had  been,  somehow :  like 
a  perfect  gentleman.  He  had  come  between  her  and  a 
gang  of  tormentors,  had  knocked  one  down  and  thrown  the 
rest  into  confusion  with  a  lively  play  of  fists,  and  then, 
whisking  Joan  into  a  convenient  taxicab,  had  taken  her 
to  the  corner  nearest  her  home  —  never  so  much  as  asking 
her  name,  or  if  he  might  call.  .  .  .  She  had  expected  him 
to  —  like  in  a  book;  but  he  didn't,  nor  had  he  (likewise 
contrary  to  her  expectations)  at  any  time  thereafter  been 
known  to  haunt  her  neighbourhood.  To  her  the  affair  was 
like  a  dream  of  chivalry:  she  remembered  him  as  very 
handsome  (probably  far  more  handsome  than  he  really 
was)  and  different,  with  grand  clothes  and  manners  (the 
man  had  helped  her  out  of  the  cab  and  lifted  his  hat  in 
parting)  :  all  in  all,  vastly  unlike  any  of  the  fellows  whose 
rude  attentions  she  somewhat  loftily  permitted  in  the 
streets  after  supper  or  at  the  home  of  some  other  girl. 

That  One  remained  her  dream-lord  of  romance.  And 
in  her  heart  of  hearts  she  was  sure  that  some  day  their 
paths  would  cross  again.  But  it  had  all  happened  so  long 
ago  that  she  had  grown  a  little  faint  with  waiting. 

So,  smothering  her  indignation  with  roseate  fancies,  she 
plodded  her  weary  way  to  Seventy-sixth  Street;  where, 
turning  eastward,  she  presently  ascended  a  squat  brown- 
stone  stoop,  entered  the  dingy  vestibule  of  a  dingier 
tenement,  pressed  the  button  below  a  mail-box  labelled 
"  Thursby,"  waited  till  the  latch  clicked  its  spasmodic  wel- 
come, and  then  began  her  weary  climb  to  the  topmost  floor. 


n 

THE  five  flights  of  steps  were  long  and  steep  and  cov- 
ered with  a  compound  of  fabric,  grease,  and  dirt  which, 
today  resembling  a  thin  layer  of  decayed  rubber,  had  once 
been  bright  linoleum.  There  was  no  light  other  than  a 
dejected  dusk  filtering  down  the  wall  from  a  grimy  sky- 
light in  the  roof,  a  twilight  lacking  little  of  the  gloom 
of  night. 

On  each  landing  five  doors  opened  —  three  toward  the 
back,  two  toward  the  front  of  the  building:  most  of  them 
ajar,  for  purposes  of  ventilation  and  publicity.  It  was 
a  question  which  was  the  louder,  the  clatter  of  tongues 
or  the  conflict  of  odours  from  things  cooking  and  things 
that  would  doubtless  have  been  the  better  for  purification 
by  fire. 

At  the  top  conditions  were  a  little  more  endurable: 
and  when  Joan  had  shut  behind  her  the  door  giving  ac- 
cess to  her  home,  the  clatter  and  squalling  came  from  below, 
a  familiar  and  not  unpleasant  blend  of  dissonances.  And 
within  the  smells  were  individual:  chiefly  of  boiled  cab- 
bage and  fried  pork,  with  a  feebly  contending  flavour  of 
cheap  tobacco-smoke. 

She  was  in  the  dining-room  of  the  Thursby  flat.  Be- 
hind it  lay  the  kitchen;  forward,  three  small  cubicles 
successively  denominated  on  the  architect's  plans  as  "  bed- 
chamber," "  alcove,"  and  "  parlour."  They  were  all,  how- 
ever, sleeping-rooms.  The  nearest  was  occupied  by  Joan's 
brother ;  the  next,  the  alcove,  contained  a  double-bed  dedi- 
cated to  Joan  and  her  young  sister;  while  the  parlour 
held  a  curiosity  called  a  folding-bed,  which  had  long  since 


8  JOAN    THURSDAY 

ceased  to  fold,  and  on  which  slept  Anthony  Thursby  and 
his  wife. 

Mrs.  Thursby  was  now  in  the  kitchen,  preparing  din- 
ner with  the  assistance  of  her  fifteen-year-old  daughter, 
Edna.  "  Butch,"  the  son  of  the  house,  was  not  at  home. 

Anthony  Thursby  sat  at  the  dining-table,  head  bent 
over  a  ragged  note-book  and  a  well-thumbed  collection  of 
white  and  pink  newspaper  clippings. 

It  was  the  sight  of  him  that  checked  Joan  in  her  ex- 
plicit intention.  She  had  meant  to  enter  dramatically  to 
her  mother,  blurt  out  the  news,  with  the  cause,  of  her 
misfortune,  and  abandon  herself  to  the  luxury  of  self-pity 
soothed  by  sympathy.  But  she  had  also  meant  to  have  it 
understood  that  nobody  was  to  tell  "  the  Old  Man  "  —  at 
least  not  until  she  should  have  established  herself  in  a  new 
job.  In  short,  she  had  not  thought  to  find  Thursby  at 
home. 

Hesitating  beside  the  table,  she  removed  the  long  pins 
from  her  hat  while  she  stared  with  narrowed  eyes  at  her 
father.  She  was  wondering  whether  she  had  n't  better 
confess  and  have  it  out  with  him  first  as  last.  The  only 
thing,  indeed,  that  made  her  pause  was  the  knowledge  that 
there  would  be  no  living  with  him  until  she  was  once  more 
"  earning  good  money  "  behind  a  counter.  And  she  was 
firmly  determined  not  again  to  seek  employment  in  a  de- 
partment store. 

Eegarding  fixedly  the  round  but  unpolished  bald  head 
with  its  neglected  fringe  of  grey  hair,  she  asked  herself 
if  the  bitterness  in  her  heart  for  her  father  were  in  truth 
hatred  or  mere  premonitory  resentment  of  the  opposition 
he  would  unquestionably  set  against  her  plans  for  the 
future.  .  .  . 

He  was  a  man  of  nearly  fifty,  who  looked  more,  in  spite 
of  a  tendency  to  genial  corpulence.  At  thirty  he  had  been 
a  fair  and  handsome  man ;  today  his  round  red  face  was 
mottled,  disfigured  by  a  ragged  grey  moustache,  discoloured 
by  several  days'  growth  of  scrubby  beard,  and  lined  and 


JOAN    THURSDAY  9 

seamed  with  the  imprint  of  that  consuming  passion  whose 
sign  was  also  set  in  his  grey,  passionate,  haunted  eyes. 
Shabbily  dressed  in  a  soiled  madras  shirt  and  shoddy 
trousers,  he  wore  neither  tie  nor  collar :  his  unkempt  chin 
hung  in  folds  upon  his  chest.  Fat  and  grimy  forearms 
protruded  from  his  rolled-up  sleeves;  fat  and  mottled 
hands  trembled  slightly  but  perceptibly  as  they  rustled  the 
pink  and  white  clippings  and  with  a  stubby  pencil  scrawled 
mysterious  hieroglyphics  in  the  battered  note-book. 

Thursby  was  intent  upon  what  he,  and  indeed  all  his 
family,  knew  as  his  "  dope  " :  checking  and  re-checking 
selections  for  to-morrow's  races.  This  pursuit,  with  its 
concomitants,  its  attendant  tides  of  hope  and  disappoint- 
ment, was  his  infatuation,  at  once  the  solace  and  the 
terror  of  his  declining  years. 

Now  and  again  he  muttered  unintelligibly. 

There  rose  a  sound  of  voices  in  the  kitchen.  Annoyed 
by  the  interruption,  he  started,  looked  up,  and  discovered 
Joan. 

She  offered  to  his  irritated  gaze  a  face  of  calm,  with 
unsmiling  features. 

"  Hello !  "  he  growled.  "  How  the  h — how  long  've 
you  been  in  ?  " 

"  Only  a  few  minutes,  pa,"  the  girl  returned  quietly. 

"  Well  —  what  're  you  standing  there  —  staring !  —  for, 
anyhow  ?  " 

"  I  did  n't  mean  anything :  I  was  just  taking  off  my 
hat." 

"  Well  "  —  his  face  was  now  purple  with  senseless  anger 
—  "  cut  along !  Don't  bother  me.  I  'm  busy." 

"  I  see." 

There  was  a  damnable  superciliousness  in  the  tone  of 
the  girl  as  she  turned  away.  Thursby  meditated  an  ex- 
plosion, but  refrained  at  discretion :  Joan  had  taught  him 
that,  unlike  her  browbeaten  mother  and  timid  sister  and 
her  sleek,  loaferish  brother,  she  could  give  as  good  as  he 
could  send.  He  bent  again,  grumbling,  over  his  dope. 


10  JOAN    THURSDAY 

Instantly  it  gripped  him,  obliterating  all  else  in  his  cos- 
mos. He  frowned,  moistened  the  pencil  at  his  mouth,  and 
scrawled  another  note  in  the  greasy  little  book. 

Joan  slipped  quietly  away  to  her  bedroom.  She  found 
it  stifling ;  ventilated  solely  from  the  parlour  and  the  open 
door  to  Butch' s  kennel,  it  reeked  with  the  smell  of  human 
flesh  and  cheap  perfume.  She  noted  resentfully  the  fact 
that  her  sister  had  neglected  to  make  up  the  bed:  its 
rumpled  sheets  and  pillows,  still  retaining  the  impres- 
sion of  overnight,  lent  the  cubicle  the  final  effect  of  sordid 
poverty. 

Hanging  up  her  hat  and  coat,  she  sat  for  a  time  on  the 
edge  of  the  bed,  thinking  profoundly. 

Such  an  existence,  she  felt,  passed  human  endurance. 
And  a  gate  of  escape  stood  ajar  to  her,  with  a  mundane 
paradise  beyond,  if  only  she  had  the  courage  to  adven- 
ture. .  .  . 

In  any  event,  conditions  as  they  were  now  with  the 
Thursbys  could  not  obtain  much  longer.  If  the  Old  Man 
continued  to  follow  the  races  through  the  poolrooms,  he 
would  soon  be  forced  out  of  his  small  business  and  his 
family  dispossessed  of  their  mean  lodgings;  and  there 
was  no  longer  any  excuse  for  hope  that  he  would  ever 
shake  off  the  bondage  of  his  infatuation.  As  it  was,  he 
gave  little  enough  toward  the  support  of  his  family,  and 
grudged  that  little;  almost  all  his  meagre  profits  went  to 
the  poolrooms ;  it  was  only  when  he  won  (or  seldom  other- 
wise) that  he  would  spare  his  wife  a  few  dollars.  Further- 
more, his  business  was  heavily  involved  in  an  intricate 
meshing  of  debt. 

Thursby,  at  least,  persisted  in  calling  it  a  business; 
though  Joan's  lips  shaped  scornfully  at  mention  of  that 
mean  and  insignificant  newspaper  shop,  crowded  in  be- 
tween a  saloon  and  a  delicatessen  shop,  in  the  shadow  of 
the  Third  Avenue  Elevated  Kailway.  In  her  understand- 
ing it  was  chiefly  remarkable  as  the  one  place  where  one 
could  be  certain  of  not  finding  Thursby  during  the  after- 


JOAN    THURSDAY  11 

noon  or  Butch  at  night.  They  were  seldom  there  together: 
it  was  as  if  father  and  son  could  not  breathe  the  same 
atmosphere  for  long  at  a  time. 

Nominally,  Butch  was  his  father's  assistant;  actually, 
he  alone  kept  the  business  alive ;  had  it  not  been  for  his 
supervision  of  the  morning  and  evening  paper  deliveries, 
it  would  long  since  have  wasted  inconspicuously  away.  By 
way  of  compensation,  Butch,  shrewdly  alive  to  signs  of  a 
winning  day,  would  now  and  again  wheedle  a  dollar  or  two 
out  of  the  Old  Man.  Wages  he  neither  received  nor  ex- 
pected, being  well  content  with  a  nominal  employment 
which  served  to  cover  many  an  hour  of  unlicensed  liberty ; 
and  he  seemed  to  have  access  to  some  mysterious  if  occa- 
sionally scanty  fund,  for  he  was  never  without  some  little 
money  in  pocket.  After  dinner,  if  Butch  elected  to  eat 
the  evening  meal  at  home,  he  invariably  disappeared; 
and  his  return  was  a  matter  of  his  personal  convenience. 
He  had  been  known  not  to  sleep  at  home  at  all ;  his  favour- 
ite bedtime  was  between  one  and  two  in  the  morning  — 
after  the  saloons  had  closed.  Yet  no  one  had  ever  seen 
him  drunk. 

He  was  younger  than  Joan  by  a  year.  Born  to  the  name 
of  Edgar,  he  had  been  dubbed  Butch  in  the  public  schools, 
and  the  name  had  stuck ;  even  his  mother  and  father  em- 
ployed it.  And  yet  it  could  not  be  said  to  suit  him ;  rather, 
the  boy  suggested  a  jocky.  He  was  short,  slender,  and 
wiry ;  with  a  strong,  emaciated  nose  flanked  by  small  eyes 
sunk  deep  in  sallow  cheeks  —  his  mouth  set  in  a  perpetu- 
ally sardonic  curve.  He  dressed  neatly,  whatever  the 
straits  and  necessities  of  the  family  (to  the  mitigation  of 
which  he  contributed  nothing  whatever)  and  had  a  failing 
for  narrow  red  neckties  and  flashy  waistcoats.  His  hard, 
thin  lips  were  generally  tight  upon  a  cigarette ;  they  were 
forever  tight  upon  his  personal  affairs :  if  he  opened  them 
at  home  it  was  to  "  kid  "  the  girls,  which  he  did  with  a 
slangy,  mordant  wit,  or  to  drop  some  casually  affectionate 
word  to  his  mother.  His  conversation  with  his  father, 


12  JOAN    THURSDAY 

whom  he  seemed  always  to  be  watching  with  a  narrow, 
grim  suspicion,  was  ordinarily  confined  to  monosyllables 
of  affirmation  or  negation. 

He  went  his  secret  ways,  self-sufficient,  wary,  reserved ; 
a  perpetual  subject  of  covert  speculation  to  the  women  of 
his  family. 

Joan  had  heard  it  whispered  that  he  was  a  member  of 
the  "  Car-barn  Gang."  But  she  never  dared  question 
Butch,  though  she  trembled  every  time  she  came  upon 
newspaper  headlines  advertising  some  fresh  hooliganism 
on  the  part  of  the  gang  —  a  policeman  "  beaten  up,"  a 
sober  citizen  "  held  up  and  frisked  "  in  the  small  hours, 
or  a  member  of  some  rival  organization  found  stabbed  and 
weltering  on  the  sawdust  floor  of  a  grisly  dive. 

Between  this  girl  and  her  brother  there  existed  a  strange 
harmony  of  understanding,  quite  tacit  and  almost  unrec- 
ognized by  either.  Joan's  nearest  approach  to  acknowl- 
edgment of  it  resided  in  infrequent  admissions  to  friends 
that  she  could  "  get  on  with  Butch,"  whereas  "  the  rest 
of  the  bunch  made  her  weary." 

Almost  all  the  vigour  and  vitality  of  the  mother  seemed 
to  have  been  surrendered  to  Butch  and  Joan;  there  had 
been  little  left  for  Edna.  The  girl  was  frail,  anaemic,  flat- 
chested,  pretty  in  an  appealing  way:  fit  only  for  one  of 
two  things,  tuberculosis  or  reconstruction  in  the  country. 
As  it  was,  in  the  busy  seasons  she  found  underpaid  em- 
ployment in  the  workrooms  of  Sixth  Avenue  dressmaking 
establishments;  between  whiles  she  drudged  at  house- 
work to  the  limits  of  her  small  strength. 

As  for  Mrs.  Thursby  ...  It  was  singularly  difficult 
for  Joan  to  realize  her  mother.  There  was  about  the 
woman  something  formless  and  intangible.  She  seemed 
to  fail  to  make  a  definite  impression  even  upon  the  retina 
of  the  physical  eye.  She  had  the  faculty  of  effacing  her- 
self, seemed  more  a  woman  that  had  been  than  a  woman 
who  was.  The  four  boundary  walls  of  the  flat  compre- 
hended her  existence ;  she  seldom  left  the  house ;  she  never 


JOAN    THURSDAY  13 

changed  her  dress  save  for  bed.  It  might  have  been  thought 
that  she  would  thus  dominate  her  world :  to  the  contrary, 
she  haunted  it,  more  a  wraith  than  a  body,  a  creature  of 
functions  rather  than  of  faculties.  She  had  a  way  of 
being  in  a  room  without  attracting  a  glance,  of  passing 
through  and  from  it  without  leaving  an  impression  of  her 
transit. 

When  Joan  made  herself  look  directly  at  her  mother, 
she  was  able  to  detect  traces  of  ravaged  beauty.  A  living 
shell  in  which  its  tenant  lay  dormant,  her  subjective  will 
to  live  alone  kept  this  woman  going  her  sempiternal  rounds 
of  monotony.  Capacity  for  affection  she  apparently  had 
none;  she  regarded  her  children  with  as  little  interest  as 
her  husband.  Nor  had  she  the  power  to  excite  or  sustain 
affection. 

Joan  believed  she  loved  her  mother.  She  did  not :  she 
accepted  her  as  a  convention  in  which  affection  inhered 
through  tradition  alone.  .  .  . 

Seated  on  the  edge  of  the  bed,  her  face  flushed  with  the 
heat  of  the  smouldering  evening,  sombre  eyes  staring 
steadfastly  at  the  threadbare  carpet,  the  girl  shook  her 
head  silently,  in  dreary  wonder. 

She  stood  at  crossroads.  She  could,  of  course,  go  on  as 
she  had  gone  —  bartering  youth  and  strength  for  a  few 
dollars  a  week.  But  every  fibre  of  her  being,  every  instinct 
of  her  forlorn  soul,  was  in  vital  mutiny  against  such 
servitude.  In  fact,  doubt  no  longer  existed  in  Joan's  mind 
as  to  which  way  she  would  turn:  dread  of  the  inev- 
itable rupture  alone  deterred  her  from  the  first  steps. 

From  the  rear  of  the  flat  Edna  called  her  fretfully: 
"  Joan !  Jo-an !  Ain't  you  coming  to  eat  ?  " 

Joan  rose.  She  answered  affirmatively  in  a  strong  voice. 
Her  mind  was  now  made  up:  she  would  tell  them  after 
supper  —  after  the  Old  Man  had  gone  back  to  the  shop. 

She  posed  before  a  mirror,  touching  her  hair  with  deft 
fingers  while  she  stared  curiously  at  the  face  falsified  in 
the  depths  of  the  uneven  sheet  of  glass. 


14  JOAN    THURSDAY 

Then  placing  her  hands  on  her  hips,  at  the  belt-line, 
thumbs  to  the  back,  she  lifted  her  shoulders,  at  one  and 
the  same  time  smoothing  out  the  wrinkles  in  her  waist  and 
settling  her  belt  into  place. 

"  Oh,"  she  said,  as  casually  as  if  there  had  been  any 
one  to  hear,  "  I  guess  I  '11  do,  all  right,  all  right !  " 


m 

WITH  a  careless  nod  to  her  mother  and  sister,  Joan 
slipped  into  her  chair  and  helped  herself  mechanically  but 
liberally  to  the  remains  of  pork  and  cabbage.  Her  mother 
tilted  a  granite-ware  pot  over  a  cup  and  filled  the  latter 
with  the  decoction  which,  in  the  Thursby  menu,  masquer- 
aded as  coffee. 

Joan  acknowledged  the  service  with  an  outspoken 
"  Thanks." 

At  this  Edna  plucked  up  courage  to  say,  with  some 
animation :  "  Joan  —  " 

The  mother  interrupted  with  a  sibilant  warning, 
"Hv&t" 

Thursby  lifted  his  head  and  raked  the  three  faces  with 
an  angry  glance.  "  In  God's  name !  "  he  cried  —  "  can't 
you  women  hold  your  tongues  ?  " 

The  girls  made  their  resentment  variously  visible :  Joan 
with  a  scowl  and  a  toss  of  her  head,  Edna  with  a  timid 
pout.  The  mother's  face  betrayed  no  emotion  whatsoever. 
Thereafter,  as  far  as  they  were  concerned,  the  meal  pro- 
gressed in  silence. 

Thursby  bent  low  over  his  plate,  in  the  intervals  devoted 
to  mastication  intently  studying  the  file  of  dope  at  his 
elbow.  Now  and  again  he  would  drop  knife  and  fork  to 
take  up  his  pencil  and  check  the  name  of  a  horse  or  jot 
additional  memoranda  in  his  note-book.  Infrequently  he 
spoke  or,  rather,  grunted,  to  indicate  a  desire  for  some 
dish  beyond  his  reach.  Curiously  enough  (Joan  remarked 
for  the  thousandth  time)  he  was  punctilious  to  say 
"  please  "  and  "  thank  you."  The  idiosyncrasy  was  all  a 
piece  (she  thought)  with  the  ease  with  which  he  employed 


16  JOAN    THURSDAY 

knife,  fork,  and  spoon:  a  careless  grace  which  the  girl 
considered  "  elegant  "  and  did  him  the  honour  to  imitate. 

Furtively  throughout  the  meal  she  studied  her  father. 
These  little  peculiarities  of  his,  these  refinements  which 
sat  so  strangely  on  his  gross,  neglected  person  and  were  so 
exotic  to  his  circumstances,  exerted  a  compelling  fascina- 
tion upon  the  nimble  curiosity  of  the  girl.  She  both  feared 
and  despised  him,  but  none  the  less  cherished  a  sneaking 
admiration  for  the  man.  Beyond  the  fact  that  their  es- 
tate had  not  always  been  so  sorry,  she  knew  nothing  of  the 
history  of  her  parents ;  but  she  liked  to  think  of  her  father, 
that  he  had  once  been,  in  some  unknown  way,  superior: 
that  he  was  a  man  ruined  by  a  marriage  beneath  his  station. 
To  think  this  flattered  her  own  secret  dreams  of  rising  out 
of  her  environment :  girls,  she  had  heard,  took  after  their 
fathers  —  and  vice-versa:  perhaps  she  had  inherited  some 
of  Anthony  Thursby's  keener  intelligence,  adaptability, 
and  sensitiveness  —  those  qualities  with  which  she  chose 
to  endow  the  man  who  had  been  Thursby  before  he  became 
her  father.  Other  circumstances  lent  colour  to  this  theory : 
Butch,  for  instance,  had  unquestionably  inherited  his 
mother's  physique  and  her  reticence,  while  Joan  had 
her  father's  vigorous  constitution  and  a  body  like  his  for 
sturdiness  and  good  proportion.  .  .  . 

Suddenly  thrusting  back  his  chair,  Thursby  rose,  but- 
toned a  soiled  collar  round  his  neck,  shrugged  a  shabby 
coat  upon  his  shoulders  and,  pocketing  his  dope,  departed 
with  neither  word  nor  glance  for  his  womenfolk. 

His  heavy  footsteps  were  pounding  the  second  flight  of 
steps  before  a  voice  broke  the  hush  in  the  stuffy  little 
room,  a  voice  faint  and  toneless,  dim  and  passionless.  It 
was  Mrs.  Thursby's. 

"  He  's  had  a  bad  day,  I  guess  .  .  ." 

Edna  placed  a  tender  hand  over  the  scalded,  listless  one 
that  rested  on  the  oilcloth.  Joan,  abandoning  her  deter- 
mination to  air  her  personal  grievances  at  the  first  avail- 
able instant,  said  suddenly: 


JOAN    THURSDAY  17 

"  Never  mind,  ma.  It  ain't  like  he  was  a  drinking 
man." 

The  vacant  eyes  in  the  faded  face  of  the  mother  were 
fathoming  distances  remote  from  the  four  walls  of  the 
slatternly  room.  Her  thin  and  colourless  lips  trembled 
slightly ;  little  more  than  a  whisper  escaped  them : 

"  Sometimes  I  wish  he  was  —  wish  he  had  been.  It  'd 
've  been  easier  to  stand  —  all  this."  A  faltering  gesture 
indicated  vaguely  the  misery  of  their  environment. 

Edna  continued  to  pet  the  unresponsive  hand. 

"  Don't,  mother !  "  she  pleaded. 

The  woman  stirred,  withdrew  her  hand,  and  slowly 
got  up. 

"  Come  on,  Edna.     Le's  get  done  with  them  dishes." 

With  eyes  hard  and  calculating,  Joan  watched  the  two 
drift  into  the  kitchen.  Their  wretched  state  touched  her 
less  than  the  fact  that  she  must  continue  forever  to  share 
it,  or  else  try  to  better  it  in  open  defiance  of  her  father's 
prejudices. 

"  Something 's  got  to  be  done  for  this  family,"  she 
grumbled  —  "  and  I  don't  see  anybody  even  thinking  of 
doing  anything  but  me !  " 

She  rose  and  strode  angrily  back  to  the  cubicle  she 
shared  with  Edna.  In  a  fit  of  unreasoning  rage,  snatching 
her  hat  from  its  hook,  she  impaled  it  upon  her  hair  with 
hatpins  that  stabbed  viciously.  It  had  grown  too  dark  to 
see  more  than  a  vague  white  shape  moving  on  the  surface 
of  the  mirror.  But  she  did  not  stop  to  light  the  gas  to 
make  sure  she  was  armoured  against  the  public  eye.  In 
another  moment,  bag  in  hand,  coat  over  her  arm,  she  was 
letting  herself  out  into  the  hallway. 

Time  enough  tomorrow  morning  to  fret  her  mother  and 
sister  with  news  of  her  misfortune:  tonight  she  was 
in  the  humour  to  make  a  bold  move  toward  freedom.  .  .  . 

But  on  the  door-stoop  she  checked,  a  trifle  dashed  by 
apprehension  of  the  impending  storm,  which  she  had  quite 
forgotten.  She  drew  back  into  the  vestibule:  she  could 


18  JOAN    THURSDAY 

hardly  afford  to  subject  her  only  decent  waist  and  skirt  to 
danger  of  a  drenching. 

An  atmosphere  if  anything  more  dense  than  that  of  the 
day  blanketed  heavily  the  city.  Even  the  gutter-children 
seemed  to  feel  its  influence,  and  instead  of  making  the 
evening  hideous  with  screams  and  rioting,  moved  with  an 
uncommon  lethargy,  or  stood  or  squatted  apart  in  little 
groups,  their  voices  hushed  and  querulous.  The  roar  of 
the  trains  on  the  nearby  Elevated  seemed  muted,  the 
clangour  of  the  Third  Avenue  surface  cars  blunted,  and 
Joan  fancied  that  the  street  lamps  burned  with  an  added 
lustre.  Wayfarers  moved  slowly  if  near  home,  otherwise 
briskly,  with  a  spirit  as  unwilling  as  unwonted:  one  and 
all  with  frequent  glances  skyward. 

Overhead,  a  low-hung  bosom  of  dusky  vapour  borrowed 
a  dull  blush  from  the  fires  of  life  that  blazed  beneath. 
In  the  west,  beyond  the  silhouetted  structure  of  the  Ele- 
vated and  the  less  distinct  profile  of  buildings  on  the  far 
side  of  Central  Park,  the  clouds  blazed  luridly  with  their 
own  dread  fires  —  a  fitful,  sheeted  play  athwart  gigantic 
curtains,  to  an  accompaniment  of  dull  and  intermittent 
grumbles. 

A  soft,  warm  breath  sighed  down  the  breathless  street, 
and  sighing,  died.  Another,  more  cool  and  brusque,  swept 
sharp  upon  the  heels  of  the  first,  played  with  the  littered 
rubbish  of  the  pavements,  caressed  with  a  grateful  touch 
flesh  still  stinging  with  the  heat  of  day,  and  drove  on, 
preceded  by  a  cloud  of  acrid  dust.  A  few  drops  of  luke- 
warm water  maculated  the  sidewalks  with  spots  as  big  as 
dollars.  There  followed  a  sharper  play  of  fire,  and  one 
more  near.  Children  ran  shrieking  to  shelter,  and  men 
and  women  dodged  into  convenient  doorways  or  scudded 
off  clumsily.  The  wind  freshened,  grew  more  chill.  .  .  . 
Then,  so  suddenly  that  there  might  as  well  have  been  no 
warning,  on  the  wings  of  the  howling  blast,  laced  continu- 
ally with  empyrean  fire,  timed  by  the  rolling  detona- 
tions of  heavy  artillery  now  near,  now  far,  a  shining 


JOAN    THURSDAY  19 

deluge  sluiced  the  streets  and  made  its  gutters  brawling 
rivulets. 

A  lonely,  huddled  figure,  standing  back  in  the  entry,  well 
out  of  the  spray  from  the  spattering  drops,  Joan  waited 
the  passing  of  the  storm  with  neither  fascination  nor  fear. 
Self-absorbed,  her  mood  almost  altogether  introspective, 
she  weighed  her  reckless  plans.  The  crisis  bellowed  over- 
head in  a  series  of  tremendous,  shattering  explosions,  bath- 
ing the  empty  street  in  wave  after  wave  of  blinding  violet 
light,  without  seriously  disturbing  the  slow,  steady  pro- 
cesses of  the  girl's  mentality. 

Then  she  became  aware  of  a  young  man  who  had  emerged 
from  the  darksome  backwards  of  the  tenement,  so  quietly 
that  Joan  had  no  notion  how  long  he  might  have  been 
standing  there,  regarding  her  with  interest  and  amusement 
in  his  grey  eyes  and  on  his  broad,  good-humoured  counte- 
nance. He  had  a  long,  strong  body  poised  solidly  on  sturdy 
legs,  short  arms  with  large  and  efficient  hands;  and  bore 
himself  with  a  careless  confidence  that  did  much  to  dis- 
semble the  negligence  of  his  mode  of  dress  —  the  ill-fitting 
coat  and  trousers,  the  common  striped  "  outing  shirt,"  the 
rusty  derby  set  aslant  on  his  round,  close-cropped  head. 
Joan  knew  him  as  Ben  Austin,  one  of  the  few  admirers 
whose  attentions  she  was  wont  to  suffer:  by  occupation  a 
stage-hand  at  the  Hippodrome;  a  steady  young  man, 
who  lived  with  his  mother  in  one  of  the  rear  flats. 

He  greeted  her  with  a  broadening  grin  and  a  "  Hello, 
Joan!" 

She  said  with  indifference :    "  Hello,  Ben." 

"  Waitin'  for  the  rain  to  let  up  ?  " 

"  No,  foolish ;  I  'm  posing  for  a  statue  of  Patience  by 
a  sculptor  who  's  going  to  be  born  to-morrow." 

This  answer  was  brilliantly  in  accord  with  the  humour 
of  the  day.  Austin  chuckled  appreciatively. 

"  I  thought  maybe  you  was  waitin'  for  Jeems  to  bring 
around  your  limousine,  Miss  Thursby." 

"  I  was,  but  he  won't  be  here  till  day  before  yesterday." 


20  JOAN    THURSDAY 

The  strain  of  such  repartee  proved  too  much  for  Austin ; 
he  felt  himself  outclassed  and,  shuffling  to  cover  his  dis- 
comfiture, sought  another  subject. 

"  Whacha  doing  tonight,  Joan  ?     Anythin'  special  ?  " 

"  I  've  got  an  engagement  to  pass  remarks  on  the  weather 
with  the  Dook  de  Bonehead,"  the  girl  returned  with  as- 
perity. "  He  ain't  late,  either." 

"  I  guess  that  was  one  off  the  griddle,  all  right,"  said 
Austin  pensively.  "  Excuse  me  for  livin'." 

There  fell  a  pause,  Joan  contemptuously  staring  away 
through  the  glimmering  raindrops,  Austin  desperately  cast- 
ing about  for  a  conversational  opening  less  calculated  than 
its  predecessors  to  educe  rebuffs. 

"Say,  Joan,  lis'en  — : 

"  Move  on/'  the  girl  interrupted :  "  you  're  blocking  the 
traffic." 

"  Nah  —  serious' :  howja  like  to  go  to  a  show  to- 
night ? " 

She  turned  incredulous  eyes  to  him.  "  What  show  ?  " 
she  drawled. 

"  I  gotta  pass  for  Ziegfield's  Follies  —  N'Yawk  Eoof. 
Wanta  go  ? " 

"  Quit  your  kidding,"  she  replied  after  a  brief  pause 
devoted  to  analysis  of  his  sincerity.  "  Y'  know  you  've  got 
to  work." 

"  Nothin'  like  that !  "  he  insisted.  "  The  Hip  closed 
last  Sat'dy  and  I  got  a  coupla  weeks  lay-off  while  they  're 
gettin'  ready  to  rehearse  the  new  show.  On  the  level,  now : 
will  you  go  with  me  ?  " 

"  Will  I !  "  The  girl  drew  a  long,  ecstatic  breath.  Then 
her  face  darkened  as  she  glanced  again  at  the  street: 
"But  we'll  get  all  wet!" 

"  No,  we  won't :  I  '11  get  an  umbrella.  Besides,  it 's 
lettin'  up." 

With  this  Austin  vanished,  to  return  in  a  few  minutes 
with  a  fairly  presentable  umbrella.  The  shower  was,  in 
fact,  fast  passing  on  over  Long  Island,  leaving  in  its  wake 


JOAN    THURSDAY  21 

a  slackening  drizzle  amid  deep-throated  growls  at  con- 
stantly lengthening  intervals. 

Half-clothed  children  were  seeping  in  swelling  streams 
from  the  tenements  as  the  two  —  Austin  holding  the  um- 
brella, Joan  with  a  hand  on  her  escort's  arm,  her  skirts 
gathered  high  about  her  trim  ankles  —  splashed  through 
lukewarm  puddles  toward  Third  Avenue.  A  faint  and 
odorous  vapour  steamed  up  from  wet  and  darkly  lustrous 
asphalt. 

They  hurried  on  in  silence:  Austin  dumbly  content 
with  his  conquest  of  the  aloof  tolerance  which  the  girl 
had  theretofore  shown  him,  and  planning  bolder  and  more 
masterful  steps;  Joan  all  ecstatic  with  the  prospect  of 
seeing  for  the  first  time  a  "  Broadway  show."  .  .  . 

A  few  minutes  before  nine  they  left  the  crosstown  car 
at  Broadway  and  Forty-second  Street. 

Though  she  had  lived  all  her  young  years  within  the 
boundaries  of  !NTew  York,  never  before  had  Joan  experi- 
enced the  sensation  of  being  a  unit  of  that  roaring  flood 
of  life  which  nightly  scours  Longacre  Square,  with  scarce 
a  perceptible  change  in  volume,  winter  or  summer.  Yet 
she  accepted  it  with  apparently  implacable  calm.  She 
felt  as  if  she  had  been  born  to  this,  as  if  she  were  com- 
ing tardily  into  her  birthright  —  something  of  which 
each  least  detail  would  in  time  become  most  intimate  to 
her. 

They  were  already  late,  and  Austin  hurried  her.  A 
brief,  hasty  walk  brought  them  to  the  theatre,  where  Austin 
left  her  in  a  corner  of  the  lobby  with  the  promise  that  he 
would  return  in  a  very  few  minutes:  he  had  to  see  a 
friend  "  round  back,"  he  explained  in  an  undertone.  But 
Joan  remained  a  target  for  boldly  enquiring  glances  for 
full  ten  minutes  before  he  reappeared.  Even  then,  with 
a  nod  to  her  to  wait,  Austin  went  to  the  box-office  window. 
She  was  not  deceived  as  to  the  general  tenor  of  his  fortunes 
there  —  saw  him  place  a  card  on  the  ledge  and  confer  in- 
audibly  with  the  ticket-seller,  and  then  reluctantly  remove 


22  JOAN    THURSDAY 

the  card  and  substitute  for  it  two  one-dollar  bills,  for 
which  he  received  two  slips  of  pasteboard. 

"  House  'most  sold  out,"  he  muttered  uncomfortably  in 
her  ear  as  an  elevator  carried  them  to  the  roof.  "  Best  I 
could  get  was  table  seats." 

"  They  're  just  as  good  as  any,"  she  whispered,  with  a 
look  of  gratitude  that  temporarily  turned  his  head. 

The  elevator  discharged  them  into  a  vast  hall  with  walls 
and  a  roof  of  glass.  Artificial  wistaria  festooned  its  beams 
and  pillars  of  steel,  palms  and  potted  plants  lined  the 
walls.  A  myriad  electric  bulbs  glimmered  dimly  through- 
out the  auditorium,  brilliantly  upon  the  small  stage.  Deep 
banks  of  chairs  radiated  back  from  the  footlights,  to  each 
its  tenant  staring  greedily  in  one  common  direction. 

An  usher  waved  the  newcomers  to  the  left.  Ultimately 
they  found  seats  at  a  small  table  in  a  far  corner  of  the 
enclosure. 

Austin  was  disappointed,  and  made  his  disappointment 
known  in  a  public  grumble:  the  table  was  too  far  away; 
they  could  n't  see  nothin'  —  might 's  well  not  've  come. 
Joan  smiled  his  ill-humour  away,  insisting  that  the  seats 
were  fine.  Mollified,  he  summoned  a  waiter  and  ordered 
beer  for  himself,  for  Joan  a  glass  of  lemonade  —  a  weirdly 
decorated  and  insipid  concoction  which,  nevertheless,  Joan 
absorbed  with  the  keenest  relish. 

In  point  of  fact,  the  distance  from  their  seats  to 
the  stage  offered  little  obstacle  to  her  complete  enjoyment : 
her  senses  were  all  youthful  and  unimpaired ;  she  saw  and 
heard  what  many  another  missed  of  those  in  their  neigh- 
bourhood. Furthermore,  Joan  brought  to  an  entertain- 
ment of  this  character  a  point  of  view  fresh,  virginal,  and 
innocent  of  the  very  meaning  of  ennui.  She  sat  forward 
on  the  extreme  edge  of  her  chair,  imperceptibly  a-quiver 
with  excitement,  avid  of  every  sight  and  sound.  All  that 
was  tawdry,  vulgar,  and  contemptible  escaped  her :  she  was 
sensitive  only  to  the  illusion  of  splendour  and  magnifi- 
cence, and  lived  enraptured  by  dream-like  music,  exquisite 


JOAN    THURSDAY  23 

wit,  and  the  poetic  beauty  of  femininity  but  half -clothed, 
or  less,  and  viewed  through  a  kaleidoscopic  play  of  coloured 
light. 

During  the  intermission  she  bent  an  elbow  on  the 
sloppy  table-top  and  chattered  at  Austin  with  a  vivacity 
new  in  his  knowledge  of  her,  and  for  which  he  had  no 
match.  .  .  . 

At  one  time  during  the  second  part  of  the  performance, 
the  auditorium  was  suddenly  darkened,  while  attention  was 
held  to  the  stage  by  the  antics  of  a  pair  of  German  come- 
dians. But  in  the  shadows  that  now  surrounded  them 
(quite  unconscious  that  Austin  had  seized  this  opportunity 
to  capture  her  warm  young  hand)  Joan  became  aware  of 
a  number  of  figures  issuing  from  a  side-door  to  the  stage. 
She  saw  them  marshalled  in  ranks  of  two  —  a  long  double 
file,  vaguely  glimmering  through  the  obscurity.  And  then 
the  comedians  darted  into  the  wings,  the  lights  blazed  out 
at  full  strength  all  over  the  enclosure,  and  a  roll  of  drums 
crescendo  roused  the  audience  to  a  tremendous  and  ex- 
hilarating novelty:  a  procession  of  chorus  girls  in  hip- 
tights  and  hussar  tunics  who,  each  with  a  snare-drum  at 
waist,  had  stolen  down  the  aisle,  into  the  heart  of  the 
auditorium. 

For  a  long  moment  they  marked  time,  drumming  skil- 
fully, their  leader  with  her  polished  baton  standing  beside 
Joan.  Then  the  orchestra  blared  out  an  accompaniment, 
and  they  strode  away,  turning  left  and  marching  up  the 
centre  aisle  to  the  stage.  .  .  .  Joan  marked,  with  pulses 
that  seemed  to  beat  in  tune  to  the  drumming,  the  wistful 
beauty  of  many  of  the  painted  faces  with  their  aloof  eyes 
and  fixed  smiles  of  conscious  self-possession,  the  richness 
of  their  uniforms,  their  bare  powdered  arms,  the  pretty 
legs  in  their  silken  casings.  Oblivious  to  the  libidinous 
glances  of  the  goggling  men  they  passed,  she  envied  them 
one  and  all  —  the  meanest  and  homeliest  of  them  even 
as  the  most  proud  and  beautiful  —  this  chance  of  theirs  to 
act,  to  be  admired,  to  win  the  homage  of  the  herd.  .  .  . 


24  JOAN    THURSDAY 

She  awoke  as  from  idyllic  dreams  to  find  herself  again 
in  a  Third  Avenue  car,  homeward  bound.  But  still  her 
brain  was  drowsy  with  memories  of  the  splendour  and  the 
glory;  fragments  of  haunting  melody  ran  through  her 
thoughts;  and  visions  haunted  her,  of  herself  command- 
ing a  similar  meed  of  adoration.  .  .  . 

Austin's  arm  lay  along  the  top  of  the  seat  behind  her; 
his  fingers  rested  lightly  against  the  sleeve  of  her  shirt- 
waist. She  did  not  notice  them.  To  his  clumsily  playful 
advances  she  returned  indefinite,  monosyllabic  answers,  ac- 
companied by  her  charming  smile  of  a  grateful  child.  .  .  . 

On  the  third  landing  of  their  tenement  they  paused  to 
say  good  night,  visible  to  one  another  only  in  a  faint 
light  reflected  up  from  the  gas-jet  burning  low  in  the 
hall  below.  The  smell  of  humanity  and  its  food  hung  in 
the  clammy  air  they  breathed.  A  hum  of  voices  from  the 
many  cells  of  the  hive  buzzed  in  their  ears.  But  Joan 
forgot  them  all. 

She  hesitated,  embarrassed  with  the  difficulty  of  finding 
words  adequate  to  express  her  thanks. 

Austin  tried  awkwardly  to  help  her  out :  "  Well,  I  guess 
it 's  good  night,  kid." 

She  said,  exclamatory :  "  O  Ben !  I  've  had  such  a  good 
time!" 

"  Dja  ?  Glad  to  hear  it.  Will  you  go  again 
—  next  week  ?  I  guess  I  can  work  som' other  show,  all 
right." 

Compunction  smote  as  memory  reminded  her.  "  But  — 
Ben  —  did  n't  you  have  to  pay  for  those  tickets  ?  " 

"  Oh,  that 's  all  right.  I  could  n't  find  the  fella  I  was 
lookin'  for,  round  back." 

"  I  'm  so  sorry  —  " 

"  Gwan !  It  was  n't  nothin'.  Cheap  at  the  price,  if 
you  liked  it,  little  girl." 

"  I  liked  it  awfully!  But  I  won't  go  again,  unless  you 
show  me  the  pass  first." 

"  Wel-1,  we  '11  see  about  that."    He  edged  a  pace  nearer. 


JOAN    THURSDAY  25 

Suddenly  self-conscious,  Joan  drew  back  and  offered  Her 
hand.     "  Good  night  and  —  thank  you  so  much,  Ben." 

He  took  the  hand,  but  retained  it.     "  Ah,  say !    is  this 
all  I  get  ?     I  thought  you  kinda  liked  me  .  .  ." 

"I  do,  Ben,  but  —  " 
Well,  a  kiss  won't  cost  you  nothin'.     It 's  your  turn 


tt 
n 


now. 

u 


But,  Ben  —  but,  Ben  —  " 

"  Oh,  well,  if  that 's  the  way  you  feel  about  it  —  " 

He  made  as  if  to  relinquish  her  hand.  But  to  be 
thought  lacking  in  generosity  had  stung  her  beyond  en- 
durance. Without  stopping  to  think  —  blindly  and 
quickly,  so  that  she  might  not  think  —  she  gave  herself 
to  his  arms. 

"  Well,"  she  breathed  in  a  soft  voice,  "  just  one  .  .  ." 

"Just  one,  eh?"  He  pressed  his  lips  to  hers.  "Oh, 
I  don't  know  about  that !  " 

He  tightened  his  embrace.  Her  heart  was  hammering 
madly.  His  mouth  hurt  her  lips,  his  beard  rasped  her 
tender  skin.  She  wanted  frantically  to  get  away,  to  regain 
possession  of  herself;  and  wanted  it  the  more  because, 
dimly  through  the  tumult  of  thought  and  emotion,  she 
was  conscious  of  the  fact  that  she  rather  liked  it. 

"  Joan  .  .  ."  Austin  murmured  in  a  tone  that,  soft 
with  the  note  of  wooing,  was  yet  vibrant  with  the  elation 
of  the  conqueror,  "  Joan  .  .  ." 

One  arm  shifted  up  from  her  waist  and  his  big  hand 
rested  heavily  over  her  heart. 

For  a  breath  she  seemed  numb  and  helpless,  suffocating 
with  the  tempest  of  her  senses.  Then  like  lightning  there 
pierced  her  confusion  the  memory  of  the  knee  that  had 
driven  her  from  the  car,  only  that  afternoon:  symbolic 
of  the  bedrock  beastliness  of  man.  With  a  quick  twist  and 
wrench  she  freed  herself  and  reeled  a  pace  or  two  away. 

"  Ben !  "  she  cried,  in  a  voice  hoarse  with  anger.  "  You 
—  you  brute  —  !  " 

"  Why,  what 's  the  matter  ?  " 


26  JOAN    THURSDAY 

"  What  right  had  you  to  —  to  touch  me  like  that  ?  " 
she  panted,  retreating  as  he  advanced. 

He  paused,  realizing  that  he  had  made  a  false  move 
which  bade  fair  to  lose  him  his  prey  entirely.  Only  by 
elaborate  diplomacy  would  he  ever  be  able  to  reestablish 
a  footing  of  friendship;  weeks  must  elapse  now  before 
he  would  gain  the  advantage  of  another  kiss  from  her 
lips.  He  swore  beneath  his  breath. 

"  I  did  n't  mean  nothing"  he  said  in  a  surly  voice. 
"  I  don't  see  as  you  got  any  call  to  make  such  a  fuss." 

"Oh,  don't  you?  ...  Don't  you!"  She  felt  as  if 
she  must  choke  if  she  continued  to  parley  with  him. 
"  Well,  I  do !  "  she  flashed ;  and  turning,  ran  up  the 
fourth  flight  of  steps. 

He  swung  on  his  heel,  muttering;  and  she  heard  him 
slam  the  door  to  his  flat. 

She  continued  more  slowly,  panting  and  struggling  to 
subdue  the  signs  of  her  emotion.  But  she  was  poisoned 
to  the  deeps  of  her  being  with  her  reawakened  loathing  of 
Man.  On  the  top  landing  she  paused,  blinking  back  her 
tears,  digging  her  nails  into  her  palms  while  she  fought 
down  a  tendency  to  sob,  then  drew  herself  up,  took  a  deep 
breath,  and  advancing  to  the  dining-room,  turned  the  knob 
with  stealth,  to  avoid  disturbing  her  family. 

To  her  surprise  and  dismay,  as  the  first  crack  widened 
between  the  door  and  jamb,  she  saw  that  the  room  was 
lighted. 

Wondering,  she  walked  boldly  in. 

Her  father  was  seated  at  the  dining-table,  a  cheap  pipe 
gripped  between  his  teeth.  Contrary  to  his  custom,  when 
he  sat  up  late,  he  was  not  thumbing  his  dope.  His  fat, 
hairy  arms  were  folded  upon  the  oilcloth,  his  face  turned 
squarely  to  the  door.  Instinctively  Joan  understood  that 
he  had  waited  up  for  her,  that  inexplicably  a  crisis  was 
about  to  occur  in  her  relations  with  her  family. 

In  a  chair  tilted  back  against  the  wall,  near  the  window 
opening  upon  the  air-shaft,  Butch  sat,  his  feet  drawn  up 


JOAN    THURSDAY  27 

on  the  lower  rung,  purple  lisle-thread  socks  luridly  dis- 
played, hands  in  his  trouser-pockets,  a  cigarette  drooping 
from  his  cynical  mouth,  a  straw  hat  with  brilliant  ribbon 
tilted  forward  over  his  eyes. 

Closing  the  door,  Joan  put  her  back  to  it,  eyes  ques- 
tioning her  parent.  Butch  did  not  move.  Thursby  sagged 
his  chin  lower  on  his  chest. 

"  Where  have  you  been  ?  "  he  demanded  in  deep  accents, 
with  the  incisive  and  precise  enunciation  which  she  had 
learned  to  associate  only  with  his  phases  of  bad  temper. 

"  Where  've  I  been  ? "  she  repeated,  stammering. 
"  Where  .  .  .  Why  —  out  walking  —  " 

"  Street-walking  ?  "  he  suggested  with  an  ugly  snarl. 

She  sank,  a  limp,  frightened  figure,  into  a  chair  near 
the  door. 

"  Why,  pa  —  what  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  I  mean  I  'm  going  to  find  out  the  why  and  wherefore 
of  the  way  you  're  behaving  yourself.  You  're  my  daugh- 
ter, and  not  of  age  yet,  and  I  have  a  right  to  know  what 
you  do  and  where  you  go.  Keep  still !  "  he  snapped,  as 
she  started  to  interrupt.  "  Speak  when  you  're  spoken 
to.  ...  I  'm  going  to  have  a  serious  talk  with  you,  young 
woman.  .  .  .  What 's  all  this  I  hear  about  your  losing 
your  job  and  going  on  the  stage  ? " 


IV 

FOE  a  brief  moment  Joan  sat  agape,  meeting  incredu- 
lously the  keen,  contemptuous  gaze  of  her  father.  Then 
she  pulled  herself  together  with  determination  to  be 
neither  browbeaten  nor  overborne. 

"  Where  'd  you  hear  that  about  me  ? "  she  demanded 
ominously. 

Thursby  shook  his  ponderous  head :  "  It  makes  no 
difference  —  " 

"  It  makes  a  lot  of  difference  to  me !  "  she  cut  in,  sharply 
contentious.  "  You  might 's  well  tell  me,  because  I  won't 
talk  to  you  if  you  don't." 

Butch  brushed  the  brim  of  his  hat  an  inch  above  his 
eyes  and  threw  her  a  glance  of  approbation.  Thursby 
hesitated,  his  large,  mottled  face  sullen  and  dark  in  the 
bluish  illumination  provided  by  the  single  gas-jet  wheez- 
ing above  the  table.  Then  reluctantly  he  gave  in. 

"  Old  Inness  was  in  the  store  this  evening.  He 
said  —  " 

"  Never  mind  what  he  said !  I  guess  I  know.  Gussie  's 
been  shooting  off  her  face  about  me  at  home.  And  of 
course  old  Inness  hadn't  nothing  better  to  do  than  to 
run  off  and  tell  you  everything  he  knew !  " 

"  Then  you  don't  deny  it  ?  "  Thursby  insisted. 

"  I  don't  have  to.  It 's  true.  No,  I  don't  deny  it," 
she  returned,  aping  his  manner  to  exasperation. 

"  How  'd  you  come  to  lose  your  job  ?  " 

"  Mr.  Winter  insulted  me  —  one  of  the  floor-walkers  — 
if  you  've  got  to  know." 

Thursby's  head  wagged  heavily  while  he  weighed  thia 


JOAN    THURSDAY  29 

information,  and  he  regarded  his  daughter  with  a  baleful, 
morose  glare,  his  fat  hands  trembling. 

"  What  did  you  say  to  this  man,  Winter  ?  "  he  asked 
presently. 

"  Told  him  I  'd  slap  his  face  if  he  tried  anything  like 
that  on  me  again.  So  he  reported  me  up  to  the  manage- 
ment —  lied  about  me  —  and  I  got  fired." 

There  was  a  long  silence,  through  which  Thursby  pon- 
dered the  matter,  his  thick  lips  moving  inaudibly,  while 
Joan  sat  upright,  maintaining  her  attitude  of  independence 
and  defiance,  and  Butch,  grinning  lazily,  as  if  at  some 
private  jest,  manufactured  ring  after  ring  of  smoke  in  the 
still,  close  air. 

Before  her  father  spoke  again,  Joan  became  cognizant 
of  Edna  and  her  mother,  like  twin  ghosts  in  their  night- 
dresses, stealing  silently,  barefooted,  to  listen  just  within 
the  door  of  the  adjoining  bedroom. 

"  And  what  do  you  propose  to  do  now  ?  "  asked  Thursby 
at  length,  lifting  his  weary,  haunted  gaze  to  his  daughter's 
face.  "  What 's  this  about  your  going  on  the  stage  ?  " 

Joan  set  her  jaw  firmly.  "  That 's  what  I  'm  going 
to  do." 

Thursby  shook  his  head  with  decision.  "  I  won't  have 
it,"  he  said. 

"  Oh,  you  won't  ?  Well,  I  'd  like  to  know  how  you  're 
going  to  stop  me.  I  'm  tired  slaving  behind  a  counter 
for  a  dog's  wages  —  and  that  eaten  up  by  fines  because  I 
won't  go  out  with  the  floor-walkers.  I  'm  going  to  do  the 
best  I  can  for  myself.  I  'm  going  to  be  an  actress,  so  's 
I  can  make  a  decent  living  for  Edna  and  ma  and  myself." 

"  A  decent  living !  "  Thursby  mocked  without  mirth. 
"  You  're  old  enough  to  know  better  than  that." 

"  I  'm  old  enough  to  know  which  side  my  bread  's  but- 
tered on,"  the  girl  flashed  back  angrily.  "  I  'm  through 
living  in  this  dirty  flat  and  giving  up  every  dollar  I  make 
to  keep  us  all  from  starving.  God  knows  what  we  'd  do 
if  it  was  n't  for  me  with  a  steady  job,  and  Edna  working 


30  JOAN    THURSDAY 

during  the  season.  You  don't  do  anything  to  help  us 
out :  all  you  get  goes  on  the  ponies.  I  don't  see  any  reason 
why  I  got  to  consult  you  if  I  choose  to  better  myself." 

She  rose  the  better  to  end  her  tirade  with  a  stamp  of 
her  foot.  Thursby  likewise  got  up,  if  more  sluggishly, 
and  moved  round  the  table  to  confront  her. 

"  You  don't  go  on  the  stage  —  no !  "  he  said.  "  That 's 
settled.  Understand  ? " 

"  Oh,  I  get  you/'  she  replied,  with  a  flirt  of  her  head, 
"  but  I  don't  agree  with  you.  I  'm  going  down  town  first 
thing  tomorrow  to  try  for  a  job  with  —  with,"  she  hesi- 
tated, "  Ziegfield's  Follies !  " 

"  You  will  do  nothing  of  the  sort,"  he  insisted  fiercely, 
congested  veins  starting  out  upon  his  forehead.  "  You  're 
my  daughter,  and  those  are  my  orders  to  you,  and  you  '11 
obey  'em  or  I  '11  know  the  reason  why.  You  ..."  He 
faltered  as  if  choking.  Then  he  flung  out  an  arm,  with  a 
violent  gesture  indicating  the  shrinking  woman  in  the 
doorway.  "  You  —  your  mother  was  an  actress  when  I 
married  her  and  took  her  off  the  stage.  She  —  she  —  " 

"  Don't  you  dare  say  a  word  against  my  mother !  " 
Joan  screamed  passionately  into  his  louring  face.  "  Don't 
you  dare !  You  hear  me :  don't  you  dare !  " 

Her  infuriated  accents  were  echoed  by  a  smothered  gasp 
and  a  spasm  of  sobbing  from  the  other  room. 

Momentarily  abashed  by  the  sheer  force  of  this  defiance, 
the  father  fell  back  a  pace.  An  expression  of  almost 
ludicrous  disconcertion  shadowed  his  discoloured  fea- 
tures. Then  slowly,  as  if  thoughtfully,  he  lifted  one  hand 
and  deliberately  tore  his  collar  from  its  fastening  and 
cast  it  from  him. 

At  this,  hastily  jerking  his  cigarette  into  the  air-shaft, 
Butch  got  up,  removed  his  hat  and  carefully  placed  it  on 
the  mantel,  out  of  harm's  way. 

"  You,"  said  Thursby  with  apparent  difficulty,  breath-  - 
ing  heavily  between  his  words  — "  you  shan't  use  that 
tone  to  me,  young  woman,  and  live  in  this  house.     More 


JOAN    THURSDAY  31 

than  that,  you  711  leave  it  this  very  night  —  now !  —  unless 
you  promise  to  give  up  this  fool's  notion  of  the  stage." 

"Tonight!" 

Joan  paled;  her  lips  tightened;  but  the  glint  in  her 
eyes  was  n't  one  of  fright. 

"  Tonight !  "  her  father  reiterated  with  malicious  pleas- 
ure in  what  he  thought  to  be  evidences  of  consternation. 
"  And  what 's  more,  you  're  going  to  apologize  to  me  now." 

"  Apologize  to  you !  "  Joan  caught  her  breath  sharply, 
and  her  next  words  came  without  premeditation;  she  was 
barely  conscious,  in  her  rage,  that  she  employed  them: 
"I '11  be  damned  if  I  do!" 

With  an  inarticulate  cry,  maddened  beyond  reason, 
Thursby  lifted  a  heavy  hand  and  stepped  toward  her. 

Simultaneously  Butch  sprang  forward,  seized  the  men- 
acing fist  and  dragged  it  down  and  back,  with  a  movement 
so  swift  and  deft  that  its  purpose  was  accomplished  and 
the  hand  pinned  to  the  small  of  Thursby's  back  actually 
before  he  appreciated  what  was  happening. 

Even  Joan  was  slow  to  comprehend  the  fact  of  this 
amazing  intervention.  .  .  . 

Nodding  emphatically,  "  Beat  it,  kid,"  Butch  counselled 
in  a  pleasant,  unstrained  tone  —  "  beat  it  while  the  going  's 
good  .  .  .  Easy,  now,  guvner !  " 

Speechless,  Joan  slipped  out  into  the  hall  and  slammed 
the  door.  Stumbling  blindly  in  the  murk,  she  was  none 
the  less  quick  to  find  the  head  of  the  stairway. 

On  the  ground  floor,  panting  and  sobbing,  she  paused  to 
listen.  There  came  from  above  no  sound  of  pursuit  to 
speed  her  on ;  yet  on  she  went,  out  of  the  house,  to  scurry 
away  through  the  midnight  hush  of  the  squalid  street  like 
a  hunted  thing. 

There  was  no  sort  of  coherence  in  her  thoughts,  nothing 
but  shreds  and  tatters  of  rage,  fear,  and  despair,  all  clouded 
with  a  faint  and  vain  regret.  She  gave  no  heed  to  the 
way  she  went:  impulse  controlled  and  blind  instinct 
guided  her.  But  at  the  corner  of  Park  Avenue  she  was 


32  JOAN    THURSDAY 

obliged  to  pause  for  breath,  and  took  advantage  of  that 
pause  to  review  her  plight  and  plan  her  future. 

Her  first  concern  must  be  to  find  a  lodging  for  the  night. 
Tomorrow  could  take  care  of  itself.  .  .  . 

Uttering  a  low  cry  of  dismay,  the  girl  clutched  at  the 
handbag  swinging  by  its  strap  from  her  wrist:  its  latch 
was  broken,  its  wide  jaws  yawned.  In  a  breath  she  had 
grasped  the  empty  substance  of  her  most  dire  apprehen- 
sions :  the  slender  fold  of  bills,  handed  her  when  she  left 
the  store  for  the  last  time  that  evening,  was  gone.  Whether 
some  sneak-thief  had  robbed  her  on  a  surface-car  or  in 
the  Broadway  rabble,  or  whether  the  lock  had  been  broken, 
releasing  its  poor  treasure,  during  her  struggle  with  Austin 
on  the  stairs  —  or  afterwards  or  before  —  she  could  not 
guess.  But  she  was  swift  to  recognize  in  its  bitter  fulness 
the  heartrending  futility  of  retracing  her  steps  to  search 
for  the  vanished  money  —  even  though  it  was  all  that  had 
stood  between  her  and  the  world,  between  a  common  room 
with  food  for  a  week  or  two  and  starvation  and  —  the 
streets. 

It  was  a  fact,  established  and  irrefutable  in  her  under- 
standing, that  she  could  never  go  back.  .  .  . 

Diligently  exploring  the  bag,  she  brought  to  light  a 
scanty  store  of  small  change :  three  quarters,  a  nickel,  seven 
coppers  —  eighty-seven  cents  wherewith  to  face  the  world ! 

Further  rummaging  educed  a  handful  of  odds  and  ends, 
from  which,  by  the  light  of  a  corner  lamp,  she  presently 
succeeded  in  sorting  out  a  folded  scrap  of  paper  bearing 
a  pencilled  memorandum,  faint  almost  to  illegibility,  so 
that  only  with  some  difficulty  could  Joan  decipher  its 
legend :  "  Maizie  Dean  (Lizzie  Fogarty)  289  W.  45  St." 

Slowly  conning  the  address  with  mute,  moving  lips,  until 
she  had  it  by  heart,  the  girl  trudged  on  to  Madison  Avenue 
and  there  signalled  and  boarded  a  southbound  surface-car. 
It  carried  few  passengers.  She  had  a  long  seat  all  to  her- 
self, and  about  fifteen  minutes  wherein  to  debate  ways 
and  means.  , 


JOAN    THURSDAY  33 

She  reckoned  it  several  years  since  Lizzie  Fogarty  (pre- 
decessor of  faithless  Gussie  Inness,  both  at  the  stocking 
counter  and  in  Joan's  confidence)  suddenly,  and  with  no 
warning  or  explanation,  had  left  the  department  store  and 
for  fully  eight  months  thereafter  had  kept  her  whereabouts 
a  mystery  to  her  erstwhile  associates  —  though  rumours 
were  not  lacking  in  support  of  a  shrewd  suspicion  that  she 
had  "  gone  on  the  stage."  The  truth  only  transpired  when, 
one  day,  she  drifted  languidly  up  to  the  counter  behind 
which  she  had  once  served,  haughtily  inspected  and  se- 
lected from  goods  offered  her  by  a  stupefied  and  indignant 
Gussie,  and  promptly  broke  down,  confessing  the  truth 
amid  giggles  not  guiltless  of  a  suspicion  of  tears.  Lizzie 
was  in  "  vodeveal,"  partner  in  a  "  sister-act  "  —  witness 
her  card  —  "  The  Dancing  Deans,  Maizie  &  May." 

Beyond  shadow  of  doubt  she  had  prospered.  Not  only 
was  she  amazingly  and  awfully  arrayed,  but  there  was  in 
evidence  an  accomplishment  believed  to  be  singular  to 
people  of  great  wealth,  an  "  English  accent "  —  or  what 
Joan  and  Gussie  ingenuously  accepted  as  such.  As  prac- 
tised by  Miss  Maizie  Dean  this  embellishment  consisted 
merely  in  broadening  every  A  in  the  language  (when  she 
did  n't  forget)  and  speaking  rapidly  in  a  high,  strained 
voice.  Its  effect  upon  her  former  associates  was  to  render 
the  wake  she  ploughed  through  their  ranks  phosphorescent 
with  envy. 

Departing  in  good  time  to  spare  the  girls  the  censure 
of  the  floor-walker,  she  had  left  with  Joan  the  pencilled 
address  and  this  counsel :  "  If  ever  you  dream,  of  goin' 
into  the  business,  my  deah,  don't  do  anythin'  before  you 
see  me.  That  ad-dress  will  always  make  me,  no  mattah 
wheah  'm  woikin' :  and  I  'd  do  anythin'  in  the  woild 
for  you.  I  know  you  'd  make  good  anywheres  —  with  that 
shape  and  them  eyes  I "  .  .  . 

Of  such  stuff  as  this  had  Joan  fashioned  her  dreams. 
Confident  in  the  generosity  of  Lizzie  Fogarty,  she  relied 
implicitly  upon  the  willingness  of  Miss  Maizie  Dean  to 


34  JOAN    THURSDAY 

help  her  into  the  magic  circle  of  "  the  profession."  She 
had  no  more  doubt  that  Maizie  would  make  it  her  business, 
even  at  cost  of  personal  inconvenience,  to  secure  her  an 
engagement,  than  she  had  that  tomorrow's  sun  would  rise 
upon  a  world  tenanted  by  one  Joan  Thursby.  Or  if  such 
doubt  entered  her  mind  by  stealth,  she  fought  it  down  and 
cast  it  forth  with  all  the  power  of  her  will.  For  in  Miss 
Dean,  nee  Fogarty,  now  resided  her  sole  immediate,  hope 
of  friendly  aid  and  advice.  .  .  . 

Alighting  at  Forty-fifth  Street,  Joan  hastened  west- 
ward, past  Fifth  Avenue  and  Sixth  to  Longacre  Square. 
Here  on  the  corner,  she  paused  to  don  her  coat;  for  the 
low-swinging  draperies  of  the  painted  skies  had  begun 
to  distil  upon  the  city  a  gentle  drizzle,  soft  and  warm. 

Only  two  hours  ago  a  vortex  of  vivid  animation,  the 
Square  now  presented  a  singular  aspect  of  sleepy  empti- 
ness. With  its  high  glittering  walls  of  steel  and  glass,  its 
polished  black  paving  like  moire  silk,  its  blushing  canopy 
of  cloud,  its  air  filled  with  an  infinity  of  globular  atoms 
of  moisture,  swirling  and  weltering  in  a  shimmer  of  in- 
candescence: it  was  like  a  pool  of  limpid  light,  deep  and 
still.  Few  moving  things  were  visible :  now  and  again  a 
taxicab,  infrequently  a  surface-car,  here  and  there,  singly, 
a  few  prowling  women,  a  scattering  of  predacious  men. 

Of  these  latter,  one  who  had  been  skulking  beneath  the 
shelter  of  the  New  York  Theatre  fire-escapes  strolled  idly 
out  toward  Joan  and  addressed  her  in  a  whisper  of  loathly 
intimacy.  Fortunately  she  did  not  hear  what  he  said. 
Even  as  he  spoke  she  slipped  away  from  the  curb  and  like 
a  haunted  shadow  darted  across  the  open  space  and  into 
the  kindly  obscurity  of  the  side-street. 

Number  289  reared  its  five-storey  brownstone  front  on 
the  northern  side  of  the  street,  hard  upon  Eighth  Avenue. 
Joan  inspected  it  doubtfully.  Its  three  lower  tiers  of  win- 
dows were  all  dark  and  lightless,  but  on  the  fourth  floor 
a  single  oblong  shone  with  gas-light,  while  on  the  fifth 
as  many  as  three  were  dully  aglow.  The  outer  doors,  at 


JOAN    THURSDAY  35 

the  top  of  the  high,  old-style  stoop,  were  closed,  and  even 
the  most  hopeful  vision  could  detect  no  definite  illumina- 
tion through  the  fan-light. 

Into  the  heart  of  Joan  a  wretched  apprehension  stole  and 
there  abode,  cold  and  crawling.  From  something  in  the 
sedate  aspect  of  the  house  she  garnered  grim  and  terrible 
forebodings. 

Nevertheless  she  dared  not  lose  grasp  on  hope.  Mount- 
ing the  stoop,  she  sought  the  bell-pull,  and  found  it  just 
below  a  small  strip  of  paper  glued  to  the  stone;  frayed 
and  weatherbeaten,  it  published  in  letters  in  faded  ink 
scrawled  by  an  infirm  hand  the  information :  "  Rooms 
to  let  furnished." 

For  some  reason  which  she  did  not  stop  to  analyze,  this 
announcement  spelled  encouragement  to  Joan.  She 
wrought  lustily  at  the  bell. 

It  evoked  no  sound  that  she  could  hear.  Trembling 
with  expectancy,  she  waited  several  minutes,  then  pulled 
again,  and  once  more  waited  while  the  cold  of  dread 
spread  from  her  heart  to  chill  and  benumb  her  hands  and 
feet.  She  heard  never  a  sound.  It  was  no  use  —  she  knew 
it  —  yet  she  rang  again  and  again,  frantically,  with 
determination,  in  despair.  And  once  she  vainly  tried  the 
door. 

The  drizzle  had  developed  into  a  fine,  driving  rain  that 
swept  aslant  upon  the  wings  of  a  new-sprung  breeze. 

A  great  weight  seemed  to  be  crushing  her:  a  vast,  in- 
visible hand  relentlessly  bearing  her  down  to  the  earth. 
Only  vaguely  did  she  recognize  in  this  the  symptoms  of 
immense  physical  fatigue  added  to  those  of  intense  emo- 
tional strain:  she  only  knew  that  she  was  all  a-weary 
for  her  bed. 

Of  a  sudden,  hope  and  courage  both  deserted  her.  Tears 
filled  her  eyes:  she  was  so  lonely  and  forlorn,  so  help- 
less and  so  friendless.  Huddled  in  the  shallow  recess 
of  the  doorway,  she  fought  her  emotions  silently  for  a 
time,  then  broke  down  altogether  and  sobbed  without  re- 


36  JOAN    THURSDAY 

straint  into  her  handkerchief.  Moments  passed  uncounted, 
despair  possessing  her  utterly. 

The  street  was  all  but  empty.  For  some  time  none  re- 
marked the  disconsolate  girl.  Then  a  man,  with  a  handbag 
but  without  an  umbrella,  appeared  from  the  direction  of 
Longacre  Square,  walking  with  a  deliberation  which  sug- 
gested that  he  was  either  indifferent  to  or  unconscious  of 
the  rain.  Turning  up  the  steps  of  Number  289,  he  jingled 
absently  a  bunch  of  keys.  Not  until  he  had  reached  the 
platform  of  the  stoop  did  he  notice  the  woman  in  the 
doorway. 

Promptly  he  halted,  lifting  his  brows  and  pursing  his 
lips  in  a  noiseless  whistle  —  his  head  cocked  critically 
to  one  side. 

Then  through  the  waning  tempest  of  her  grief,  Joan 
heard  his  voice : 

"  I  say !    What 's  the  matter  ?  " 

Gulping  down  a  sob  and  dabbing  hastily  at  her  eyes 
with  a  sodden  wad  of  handkerchief,  she  caught  through 
a  veil  of  tears  a  blurred  impression  of  her  interrogator. 
A  man  .  .  .  She  ceased  instantly  to  cry  and  shrank  hastily 
out  of  his  way,  into  the  full  swing  of  wind  and  rain.  She 
said  nothing,  but  eyed  him  with  furtive  distrust.  He  made 
no  offer  to  move. 

"  See  here !  "  he  expostulated.  "  You  're  in  trouble. 
Anything  I  can  do  ?  " 

Joan  felt  that  she  was  regaining  control  of  herself.  She 
dared  to  linger  and  hope  rather  than  to  yield  to  her  primi- 
tive instinct  toward  flight, 

"  Nothing,"  she  said  with  a  catch  in  her  voice  —  "  only 
I  —  I  wanted  to  see  Miss  Dean ;  but  nobody  answered  the 
bell." 

"  Oh !  "  he  said  thoughtfully  —  "  you  wanted  to  see  Miss 
Dean  —  yes !  "  —  as  though  he  considered  this  a  thor- 
oughly satisfactory  explanation.  "  But  Madame  Duprat 
never  does  answer  the  door  after  twelve  o'clock,  you  know. 
She  says  people  have  no  right  to  call  on  us  after  midnight. 


JOAN    THURSDAY  37 

There  's  a  lot  in  that,  too,  you  know."  He  wagged  his 
head  earnestly.  "  Really !  "  he  concluded  with  animation. 

His  voice  was  pleasant,  his  manner  sympathetic  if  some- 
thing original.  Joan  found  courage  to  enquire : 

"  Do  you  think  —  perhaps  —  she  might  be  in  ?  " 

"  Oh,  she  never  leaves  the  house.  At  least,  I  've  never 
seen  her  leave  it.  I  fancy  she  thinks  one  of  us  might  move 
it  away  if  she  got  out  of  sight  for  a  minute  or  so." 

Puzzled,  Joan  persisted :  "  You  really  think  Miss  Dean 
is  in?" 

"  Miss  Dean  ?  Oh,  beg  pardon !  I  was  thinking  of 
Madame  Duprat.  Ah  .  .  .  Miss  Dean  .  .  .  now  ...  I 
infer  you  have  urgent  business  with  her  —  what  ?  " 

"  Yes,  very !  "  the  girl  insisted  eagerly.  "  If  I  could 
only  see  her  ...  I  must  see  her !  " 

"  I  'm  sure  she 's  in,  then !  "  the  man  declared  in 
accents  of  profound  conviction.  "  Possibly  asleep.  But 
at  home.  O  positively !  "  He  inserted  a  key  in  the  lock 
and  pushed  the  door  open.  "  If  you  don't  mind  coming 
in  —  out  of  the  weather  —  I  '11  see." 

Joan  eyed  him  doubtfully.  The  light  was  indifferent, 
a  mere  glimmer  from  the  corner  lamp  at  Eighth  Avenue ; 
but  it  enabled  her  to  see  that  he  was  passably  tall  and 
quite  slender.  He  wore  a  Panama  hat  with  dark  clothing. 
His  attitude  was  more  explicitly  impersonal  than  that  of 
any  man  with  whom  she  had  as  yet  come  into  contact :  she 
could  detect  in  it  no  least  trace  either  of  condescension  or 
of  an  ingratiating  spirit.  He  seemed  at  once  quite  self- 
possessed  and  indefinitely  preoccupied,  disinterested,  and 
quite  agreeable  to  be  made  use  of.  In  short,  he  engaged 
her  tremendously. 

But  what  more  specifically  prepossessed  her  in  his 
favour,  and  what  in  the  end  influenced  her  to  repose  some 
slight  confidence  in  the  man,  was  a  quality  with  which 
the  girl  herself  endowed  him :  she  chose  to  be  reminded  in 
some  intangible,  elusive  fashion,  of  that  flower  of  latter- 
day  chivalry  who  had  once  whisked  her  out  of  persecution 


38  JOAN    THURSDAY 

into  his  taxicab  and  to  her  home.  In  point  of  fact,  the 
two  were  vastly  different,  and  Joan  knew  it ;  but,  at  least, 
she  argued,  they  were  alike  in  this:  both  were  gentlemen 
—  rare  visitants  in  her  cosmos. 

It  was  mostly  through  fatigue  and  helpless  bewilder- 
ment, however,  that  she  at  length  yielded  and  consented 
to  precede  him  into  the  vestibule.  Here  he  opened  the 
inner  doors,  ushering  Joan  into  a  hallway  typical  of  an 
old  order  of  dwelling,  now  happily  obsolescent.  The  floor 
was  of  tiles,  alternately  black  and  white :  a  hideous  checker- 
board arrangement.  A  huge  hat-rack,  black  walnut  fram- 
ing a  morbid  mirror,  towered  on  the  one  hand;  on  the 
other  rose  a  high  arched  doorway,  closed.  And  there  was 
a  vast  and  gloomy  stairway  with  an  upper  landing  lost  in 
shadows  impenetrable  to  the  feeble  illumination  of  the 
single  small  tongue  of  gas  flickering  in  an  old-fashioned 
bronze  chandelier. 

Listening,  Joan  failed  to  detect  in  all  the  house  any 
sounds  other  than  those  made  by  the  young  man  and 
herself. 

"  If  you  '11  be  good  enough  to  follow  me  —  " 

He  led  the  way  to  the  rear  of  the  hall,  where,  in  the 
shadow  of  the  staircase,  he  unlocked  a  door  and  disap- 
peared. The  girl  waited  on  the  threshold  of  a  cool  and 
airy  chamber,  apparently  occupying  the  entire  rear  half 
of  the  ground  floor.  At  the  back,  long  windows  stood  open 
to  the  night.  The  smell  of  rain  was  in  the  room. 

"  Half  a  minute:   I  '11  make  a  light." 

He  moved  through  the  darkness  with  the  assurance  of 
one  on  old,  familiar  ground.  In  the  middle  of  the  room 
a  match  spluttered  and  blazed:  with  a  slight  plup!  a 
gas  drop-light  with  a  green  shade  leapt  magically  out  of 
the  obscurity,  discovering  the  silhouette  of  a  tall,  spare 
figure  bending  low  to  adjust  the  flame;  which  presently 
grew  strong  and  even,  diffusing  a  warm  and  steady  glow 
below  the  green  penumbra -of  its  shade. 

The  man  turned  back  with  his  quaint  air  of  deference. 


JOAN    THURSDAY  39 

"  Now,  if  you  don't  mind  sitting  down  and  waiting  a 
minute,  I  '11  ask  Madame  Duprat  about  Miss  —  ah  — 
your  friend  —  " 

"  Miss  Dean  —  Maizie  Dean." 

"  Thank  you." 

With  this  he  left  the  girl,  and  presently  she  heard  his 
footsteps  on  the  staircase. 

She  found  a  deeply  cushioned  arm-chair,  and  subsided 
into  it  with  a  sigh.  The  intensity  of  her  weariness  was 
indeed  a  very  serious  matter  with  her.  Her  very  wits 
shirked  the  labour  of  grappling  with  the  problem  of  what 
she  should  do  if  Maizie  Dean  were  not  at  home.  .  .  . 

Wondering  incoherently,  she  stared  about  her.  The 
rich,  subdued  glow  of  the  shaded  lamp  suggested  more  than 
it  revealed,  but  she  was  impressed  by  the  generous  pro- 
portions of  the  room.  The  drop-light  itself  stood  on  a 
long,  broad  table  littered  with  a  few  books  and  a  great 
many  papers,  inkstands,  pens,  blotters,  ash-trays,  pipes: 
all  in  agreeable  disorder.  Beyond  this  table  was  one 
smaller,  which  supported  a  typewriting-machine.  Against 
the  nearer  wall  stood  a  luxurious,  if  worn,  leather-covered 
couch.  There  were  two  immense  black  walnut  bookcases. 
The  windows  at  the  back  disclosed  a  section  of  iron-railed 
balcony. 

Joan  grew  sensitive  to  an  anodynous  atmosphere  of  quiet 
and  comfort.  .  .  . 

Drowsily  she  heard  a  quiet  knocking  at  some  door  up- 
stairs ;  then  a  subdued  murmur  of  voices,  the  closing  of  a 
door,  footsteps  returning  down  the  long  staircase.  When 
these  last  sounded  on  the  tiled  flooring,  the  girl  spurred 
her  flagging  senses  and  got  up  in  a  sudden  flutter  of  doubt, 
anxiety,  and  embarrassment.  The  man  entering  the  room 
found  her  so  —  poised  in  indecision. 

"  Please  do  sit  down,"  he  said  quietly,  with  a  smile  that 
carried  reassurance ;  and,  taking  her  compliance  for  some- 
thing granted,  passed  on  to  another  arm-chair  near  the  long 
table. 


40  JOAN    THURSDAY 

With  a  docility  and  total  absence  of  distrust  that  later 
surprised  her  to  remember,  Joan  sank  back,  eyes  eloquent 
with  the  question  unuttered  by  her  parted  lips. 

Her  host,  lounging,  turned  to  her  a  face  of  which  one 
half  was  in  dense  shadow:  a  keen,  strongly  modelled  face 
with  deep-set  eyes  at  once  whimsical  and  thoughtful,  and 
a  mouth  thin-lipped  but  generously  wide.  He  rested  an 
elbow  on  the  table  and  his  head  on  a  spare,  sinewy  hand, 
thrusting  slender  fingers  up  into  hair  straight,  not  long, 
and  rather  light  in  colour. 

"  I  'm  sorry  to  have  to  report,"  he  said  gently,  "  that 
1  The  Dancing  Deans,  Maizie  and  May,'  are  on  the  road. 
So  I  'm  informed  by  Madame  Duprat,  at  least.  They  're 
not  expected  back  for  several  weeks.  ...  I  hope  you 
are  n't  greatly  disappointed." 

Her  eyes,  wide  and  dark  with  dismay,  told  him  too 
plainly  that  she  was.  She  made  no  effort  to  speak,  but 
after  an  instant  of  dumb  consternation,  moved  as  if  to  rise. 

He  detained  her  with  a  gesture.  "  Please  don't  hurry : 
you  need  n't,  you  know.  Of  course,  if  you  must,  I  won't 
detain  you :  the  door  is  open,  your  way  clear  to  the  street. 
But  what  are  you  going  to  do  about  a  place  to  sleep 
tonight  ?  " 

She  stared  in  surprise  and  puzzled  resentment.  A  warm 
wave  of  colour  temporarily  displaced  her  pallor. 

"  What  makes  you  so  sure  I  've  got  no  place  to  sleep  ?  " 
she  asked  ungraciously. 

He  lifted  his  shoulders  slightly  and  dropped  his  hand 
to  the  table. 

"  Perhaps  I  was  impertinent,"  he  admitted.  "  I  'm 
sorry.  .  .  .  But  you  have  n't  —  have  you  ?  " 

"  No,  I  have  n't,"  she  said  sharply.  "  But  what 's 
that  —  " 

"  As  you  quite  reasonably  imply,  it 's  nothing  to  me," 
he  interrupted  suavely.  "  But  I  'd  be  sorry  to  think  of  you 
out  there  —  alone  —  in  the  rain  —  when  there  's  no  reason 
why  you  need  be." 


JOAN    THURSDAY  41 

"  No  reason !  "  she  echoed,  wondering  if  she  had  mis- 
judged him  after  all. 

Without  warning  the  man  tilted  the  green  lamp-shade 
until  a  broad,  strong  glow  flooded  her  face.  A  spark  of 
indignation  kindled  in  the  girl  while  she  endured  his  brief, 
impersonal,  silent  examination.  Sheer  fatigue  alone  pre- 
vented her  from  rising  and  walking  out  of  the  room  — 
that,  and  curiosity. 

He  replaced  the  shade,  and  got  out  of  the  chair  with  a 
swift  movement  that  seemed  not  at  all  one  of  haste. 

"  I  see  no  reason,"  he  announced  coolly.  "  I  Ve  got 
to  run  along  now  —  I  merely  dropped  in  to  get  a  manu- 
script. I  think  you  '11  be  quite  comfortable  here  —  and 
there  'a  a  good  bolt  on  the  door.  Of  course,  it  'a  very 
unconventional,  but  I  hope  you  '11  be  kind  enough  to  over- 
look that,  considering  the  circumstances.  And  tomorrow, 
after  a  good  rest,  you  can  make  up  your  mind  whether  it 
would  be  wiser  to  stick  to  your  first  plan  or  —  go  home." 

He  smiled  with  a  vague,  disinterested  geniality,  and 
added  a  pleading  "  Now  don't  say  no !  "  when  he  saw  that 
the  girl  had  likewise  risen. 

"  How  do  you  know  I  Ve  left  home  ? "  she  demanded 
hotly. 

"  Well  "  —  his  smile  broadened  —  "  deductive  faculty 
—  Sherlock  Holmes  —  Dupin  —  that  sort  of  tommyrot, 
you  know.  But  it  was  n't  such  a  bad  guess  —  now  was 
it?" 

"  I  don't  see  how  you  knew,"  she  muttered  sulkily. 

He  ran  his  long  fingers  once  or  twice  through  his  hair 
in  a  manner  of  great  perplexity. 

"  I  can't  quite  tell,  myself." 

"  It  was  n't  my  fault,"  she  protested  with  a  flash  of 
passion.  "  I  lost  my  job  today,  and  because  I  said  I 
wanted  to  go  on  the  stage,  my  father  put  me  out  of  the 
house." 

"  Yes,"  he  agreed  amiably ;  "  they  always  do  —  don't 
they?  I  fancied  it  was  something  like  that.  But  there 


42  JOAN    THURSDAY 

is  n't  really  any  reason  why  you  should  n't  go  home  to- 
morrow and  patch  it  up  —  or  is  there  ?  " 

She  gulped  convulsively :   "  You  don't  understand  —  " 

"  Probably  I  don't,"  he  conceded.  "  Still,  things  may 
look  very  much  otherwise  in  the  morning.  They  generally 
do,  I  notice.  One  goes  to  bed  with  reluctance  and  wakes  up 
with  a  headache.  All  that  sort  of  thing.  .  .  .  But  if  you  '11 
listen  to  me  a  moment  —  why,  then  if  you  want  to  go,  I 
shan't  detain  you.  .  .  .  My  name  is  John  Matthias.  My 
trade  is  writing  things  —  plays,  mostly :  I  know  it  sounds 
foolish,  but  then  I  hate  exercise.  I  live  —  sleep,  that  is  — 
ah  —  elsewhere  —  down  the  street.  This  is  merely  my 
work-room.  So  your  stopping  here  won't  inconvenience  me 
in  the  least  .  .  ." 

He  snatched  up  a  mass  of  papers  from  the  table,  folded 
them  hastily  and  thrust  them  into  a  coat  pocket. 

"  That  manuscript  I  was  after.  Good  night.  I  do  hope 
you  '11  be  comfortable." 

Before  the  amazed  girl  could  collect  herself,  he  had  his 
hat  and  handbag  and  was  already  in  the  hallway. 

She  ran  after  him. 

"  But,  Mr.  Matthias  —  " 

He  glanced  hastily  over  his  shoulder  while  fumbling 
with  the  night-latch. 

"  I  can't  let  you  —  " 

"  Oh,  but  you  must  —  really,  you  know." 

He  had  the  door  open. 

"  But  why  do  you  —  how  can  you  trust  me  with  all 
your  things  ? " 

"  Tut !  "  he  said  reprovingly  from  the  vestibule  — 
"  nothing  there  but  play  'scripts,  and  they  're  not  worth 
anything.  You  can't  get  anybody  to  produce  'em.  I 
know,  because  I  've  tried." 

He  closed  the  inner  door  and  banged  the  outer  behind 
him. 

Joan,  on  the  point  of  pursuing  to  the  street,  paused  in 
the  vestibule,  and  for  a  moment  stood  doubting.  Then, 


JOAN    THURSDAY  43 

with  a  bewildered  look,  she  returned  slowly  to  the  back 
room,  shut  herself  in,  and  shot  the  bolt.  .  .  . 

On  the  platform  of  the  stoop,  Mr.  Matthias  delayed  long 
enough  to  turn  up  his  coat-collar  for  the  better  protection 
of  his  linen,  and  surveyed  with  a  wry  grin  the  slashing  rush 
of  rain  through  which  he  now  must  needs  paddle  un- 
protected. 

"  Queer  thing  for  a  fellow  to  do,"  he  mused  dispas- 
sionately. .  .  . 

"  Daresay  I  am  a  bit  of  an  ass.  ...  I  might  at  least 
have  borrowed  my  own  umbrella.  .  .  .  But  that  would 
hardly  have  been  consistent  with  the  egregious  insanity  of 
the  performance.  .  .  . 

11 1  wonder  why  I  do  these  awful  things  ?  ...  If  I  only 
knew,  perhaps  I  could  reform.  ..." 

Running  down  the  steps,  he  set  out  at  a  rapid  pace  for 
the  Hotel  Astor;  which  in  due  time  received  and  har- 
boured him  for  the  night. 


AWAKENING  at  a  late  hour  in  a  small  bedroom  bright 
with  sunlight,  Mr.  Matthias  treated  himself  to  a  moment 
of  incredulity.  Such  surroundings  were  strange  to  his 
drowsy  perceptions,  and  his  transitory  emotions  on  finding 
himself  so  curiously  embedded  might  be  most  aptly  and 
tersely  summed  up  in  the  exclamation  of  the  old  lady  in 
the  nursery  rhyme :  "  Lack-a-mercy,  can  this  be  I  ?  " 

Being,  however,  susceptible  to  a  conviction  of  singular 
strength  that  he  was  himself  and  none  other ;  and  by  dint 
of  sheer  will-power  overcoming  a  tremendous  disinclina- 
tion to  do  anything  but  lie  still  and  feel  perfectly  healthy, 
sound,  and  at  peace  with  the  world:  he  induced  himself 
to  roll  over  and  fish  for  his  watch  in  the  pocket  of  the  coat 
hanging  on  a  nearby  chair. 

The  hour  proved  to  be  half-past  ten. 

He  fancied  that  he  must  have  been  uncommonly  tired 
to  have  slept  so  late. 

Then  he  remembered. 

"  One  does  n't  need  to  get  drunk  to  be  daft,"  was  the 
conclusion  he  enunciated  to  his  loneliness. 

"  I  hope  to  goodness  she  does  n't  go  poking  through  my 
papers !  " 

The  perturbation  to  which  this  thought  gave  rise  got 
him  out  of  bed  more  promptly  than  would  otherwise  have 
been  the  case.  None  the  less  he  forgot  it  entirely  in  an- 
other moment,  and  had  bathed  and  dressed  and  was  knot- 
ting his  tie  before  a  mirror  when  the  memory  of  the  girl 
again  flitted  darkly  athwart  the  glass  of  his  consciousness. 

"  Wonder  what  it  was  that  made  me  turn  myself  out  of 
house  and  home  for  the  sake  of  that  girl,  anyway  ?  Some- 
thing about  her  .  .  ." 


JOAN    THURSDAY  45 

But  try  as  he  might  he  could  recall  no  definite  details 
of  her  personality.  She  remained  a  shadow  —  a  hunted, 
tearful,  desperate  wraith  of  girlhood:  more  than  that, 
nothing. 

He  wagged  his  head  seriously. 

"  Something  about  her !  .  .  .  Must  've  been  good-look- 
ing ...  or  something  ..." 

With  which  he  drifted  off  into  an  inconsequent  and 
irrelevant  reverie  which  entertained  him  exclusively 
throughout  breakfast  and  his  brief  homeward  walk:  in 
his  magnificent,  pantoscopic,  protean  imagination  he  was 
busily  engaged  in  writing  the  first  act  of  a  splendid  new 
play  —  something  exquisitely  odd,  original,  witty,  and 
dramatic. 

A  vague  smile  touched  the  corners  of  his  mouth;  his 
eyes  were  hazily  lustrous;  his  nose  was  in  the  air.  He 
had  forgotten  his  guest  entirely.  He  ran  up  the  steps  of 
Number  289,  let  himself  in,  trotted  down  the  hall  and 
burst  unceremoniously  into  his  room  —  not  in  the  least 
disconcerted  to  find  it  empty,  not,  indeed,  mindful  that  it 
might  have  been  otherwise. 

His  hat  went  one  way,  his  handbag  into  a  corner  with 
a  resounding  bang.  He  sat  himself  down  at  his  typewriter, 
quickly  and  deftly  inserted  a  sheet  of  paper  into  the  car- 
riage and  ...  sat  back  at  leisure,  his  gaze  wandering 
dreamily  out  of  the  long,  open  windows,  into  the  world 
of  sunshine  that  shimmered  over  the  back-yards. 

A  subconscious  impulse  moved  him  to  stretch  forth  a 
long  arm  and  drop  his  hand  on  the  centre-table;  after  a 
few  seconds  his  groping  fingers  closed  round  the  bowl  of 
an  aged  and  well-beloved  pipe. 

He  filled  it,  lighted  it,  smoked  serenely. 

Half  an  hour  elapsed  before  he  was  disturbed.  Then 
someone  knocked  imperatively  on  the  door.  He  recognized 
the  knock;  it  was  Madame  Duprat's.  Swinging  round 
in  his  chair  he  said  pleasantly :  "  Come  in." 

Madame  Duprat  entered,  filling  the  doorway.    She  shut 


46  JOAN    THURSDAY 

the  door  and  stood  in  front  of  it,  subjecting  it  to  an  almost 
total  eclipse.  She  was  tall  and  portly,  a  grenadier  of  a 
woman,  with  a  countenance  the  austerity  of  whose  severely 
classic  mould  was  somewhat  moderated  by  a  delicate,  dark 
little  moustache  on  her  upper  lip.  Her  mien  was  regal 
and  portentous,  sitting  well  upon  the  person  of  the  widow 
of  a  great  if  unrecognized  French  tragedian ;  but  her  eyes 
were  kindly ;  and  Matthias  had  long  since  decided  that  it 
needed  a  body  as  big  as  Madame  Duprat's  to  contain  her 
heart. 

"  Bon  jour,  monsieur." 

"  Bon  jour,  madame." 

This  form  of  salutation  was  invariable  between  them; 
but  the  French  of  Matthias  rarely  withstood  much  addi- 
tional strain.  He  lapsed  now  into  English,  cocking  an 
eye  alight  with  whimsical  intelligence  at  the  face  of  the 
landlady.  Madame  possessed  the  gift  (as  it  were  an  in- 
heritance from  the  estate  of  her  late  husband)  of  creating 
an  atmosphere  at  will,  when  and  where  she  would.  That 
which  her  demeanour  now  created  within  the  four  walls 
of  tlje  chamber  of  Monsieur  Matthias  was  rather  electrical. 

"  Something 's  happened  to  disturb  madame  ?  "  he  haz- 
arded. "  What 's  the  row  ?  Have  we  discharged  our  chef  ? 
Is  it  that  the  third-floor  front  is  behindhand  with  his  rent  ? 
Or  has  Achilles  —  that  dachshund  of  Heaven !  —  turned 
suffragette  —  and  proved  it  with  pups  ?  " 

"  The  row,  monsieur,"  madame  checked  him  coldly, 
"  has  to  do  only  with  the  conduct  of  monsieur  himself  ?  " 

"  Eh  ?  "  Matthias  queried  blankly. 

"  You  ask  me  what  ? "  The  hands  of  madame  were 
vivid  with  exasperation.  "  Is  it  that  monsieur  is  not 
aware  he  entertained  a  young  woman  in  this  room  last 
night?" 

"  Oh  —  that !  "  The  cloud  passed  from  monsieur's 
eyes.  He  smiled  cheerfully.  "  But  it  was  quite  proper, 
indeed,  madame.  Believe  me,  I  —  " 

"  Proper !    And  what  is  propriety  to  me,  if  you  please 


JOAN    THURSDAY  47 

—  at  my  age  ?  "  madame  demanded  indignantly.  "  Am 
I  not  aware  that  monsieur  left  my  house  almost  imme- 
diately after  entering  it  and  spent  the  night  elsewhere  ? 
Did  I  not  from  my  window  see  him  running  up  the  street 
with  his  handbag  through  the  rain  ?  But  am  I  to  figure 
as  the  custodian  of  my  lodgers'  morals  ?  "  The  thought 
perished,  annihilated  by  an  ample  gesture.  "  My  quarrel 
with  monsieur  is  that  he  left  the  young  woman  here 
alone  !  " 

Matthias  found  the  vernacular  the  only  adequate  vehicle 
of  expression :  "  I  've  got  to  hand  it  to  you,  Madame 
Duprat;  your  point  of  view  is  essentially  Gallic." 

"  But  what  is  the  explanation  of  this  conduct,  mon- 
sieur ?  Am  I  to  look  forward  to  future  escapades  of  the 
same  nature  ?  Do  you  intend  to  make  of  my  house  a 
refuge  for  all  the  stray  unfortunates  of  New  York  ?  Am 
I,  and  my  guests,  to  be  left  to  the  mercies  of  God-knows- 
who,  simply  because  monsieur  has  a  heart  of  pity  ?  " 

"  Oh,  here !  "  Matthias  broke  in  with  some  impatience. 
"  It  was  n't  as  bad  as  that.  It 's  not  likely  to  happen 
again  .  .  .  and  besides,  the  girl  was  a  perfectly  good,  nice, 
respectable  girl.  Madame  should  know  that  I  would  n't 
take  any  chances  with  people  I  did  n't  know  all  about." 

"  Monsieur  knew  the  young  woman,  then  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes ;   assuredly  yes,"  Matthias  lied  nonchalantly. 

By  the  happiest  of  accidents,  his  glance,  searching  the 
table  for  a  box  of  matches  wherewith  to  relight  his  pipe, 
encountered  a  sheet  of  typewriter  paper  on  which  a  brief 
message  had  been  scrawled  in  a  formless,  untrained  hand : 

"  Dear  Sir"  he  read  with  relief,  "  thank  you  —  Your 
friend,  Joan  Thursby." 

He  found  the  matches  and  used  one  before  looking  up. 

"  Miss  Thursby,"  he  said  coolly,  "  is  the  daughter  of  an 
eminently  respectable  family  in  reduced  circumstances. 
Thinking  to  better  her  condition,  she  proposed  to  become 
an  actress,  but  met  with  such  violent  opposition  on  the 
part  of  her  father  —  a  bigot  of  a  man !  —  that  she  was 


48  JOAN    THURSDAY 

obliged  to  leave  her  home  in  order  to  retain  her  self- 
respect.  Quite  naturally  she  thought  first  of  her  only 
friend  in  the  profession,  Miss  Maizie  Dean,  and  came 
here  to  find  her.  The  rest  you  may  imagine.  Was  I  to 
turn  her  out  to  wander  through  the  rain  —  at  two  o'clock 
in  the  morning  ?  Madame  discredits  her  heart  by  suggest- 
ing anything  of  the  sort!  " 

Madame's  expression  of  contrition  seemed  to  endorse 
this  reproof.  She  hesitated  with  a  hand  on  the  doorknob. 

"  Monsieur  is  prepared  to  vouch  for  the  young  woman  ?  " 

"  Certainly,"  he  assented,  with  an  imperturbable  coun- 
tenance masking  a  creepy,  crawly  feeling  that  perhaps  he 
might  be  letting  himself  in  for  more  than  he  bargained. 

"  Very  good.  I  go,  with  apologies."  Madame  opened 
the  door.  "  Thursday,  you  said  ?  " 

He  repeated  without  bothering  to  correct  her :  "  Joan 
Thursday." 

"  Barbarous  names  of  these  mad  Americans !  " 

The  door,  closing,  totally  eclipsed  the  grenadier. 

With  thoughtful  deliberation  Matthias  (smiling  guilt- 
ily) tore  Joan's  note  into  minute  bits  and,  dropping  them 
in  a  waste-basket,  dismissed  her  message  and  herself  en- 
tirely from  his  mind. 

Five  minutes  later  the  typewriter  was  rattling  cheerily. 

But  its  staccato  chattering  continued  without  serious 
interruption  only  for  the  time  required  to  cover  two  pages 
and  part  of  a  third.  Then  came  a  long  interval  of  smoke- 
soothed  meditation,  which  ended  with  the  young  man 
cheerfully  placing  fresh  paper  in  the  machine  and  start- 
ing all  over  again.  This  time  he  worked  more  slowly, 
weighing  carefully  the  value  of  lines  already  written  be- 
fore recasting  and  committing  them  to  paper ;  but  the  third 
sheet  was  covered  without  evident  error,  and  a  fourth,  and 
then  a  fifth.  Indeed  the  type-bars  were  drumming  heartily 
on  the  last  quarter  of  page  6,  when  suddenly  the  young 
man  paused,  scowled,  thrust  back  his  chair  and  groaned 
from  his  heart. 


JOAN    THURSDAY  49 

He  sat  for  a  space,  teetering  on  the  rear  legs  of  his 
chair,  his  lips  pursed,  forehead  deeply  creased  from  temple 
to  temple.  Then  in  a  sepulchral  tone  uttering  the  single 
word  "  Snagged! "  he  rose  and  began  to  pace  slowly  to 
and  fro  between  the  door  and  the  windows. 

At  the  end  of  an  hour  he  was  still  patrolling  this  well- 
worn  beat  —  his  way  of  torment  by  day  and  by  night,  if 
the  threadbare  length  of  carpet  were  to  be  taken  as  a 
reliable  witness.  And  there  's  no  telling  how  long  he  might 
have  continued  the  exercise  had  not  Madame  Duprat 
knocked  once  again  at  his  door. 

Roused  by  that  sound,  he  came  suddenly  out  of  profound 
speculations.  Stopping  short  and  bidding  Madame  enter, 
he  waited  with  hands  thrust  deep  in  his  trouser-pockets 
and  shoulders  hunched  high  toward  his  ears,  a  cloud  of 
annoyance  darkening  his  countenance. 

Madame  Duprat  came  in  with  a  "  Pardon,  monsieur," 
and  a  yellow  envelope.  Placing  this  last  upon  the  table, 
she  announced  with  simple  dignity,  "  A  telegram,  if  you 
please,"  and  retired. 

Matthias  strode  to  the  table  and  with  an  air  of  some 
surprise  and  excitement  tore  open  the  message.  He  found 
its  import  unusual  in  more  than  one  respect:  it  was  not 
a  "  day-letter,"  and  it  had  been  written  with  a  fine,  care- 
less extravagance  of  emotion  that  recked  naught  whatever 
of  the  ten-word  limit. 

He  conned  its  opening  aloud :  '  '  Beast  animal  coward 
ingrate  poltroon  traitor  beast '  —  " 

At  this  point  he  broke  off  to  glance  at  the  signature  and 
observe  thoughtfully :  "  If  Helena  's  going  in  for  this  sort 
of  thing,  I  really  must  buy  her  a  thesaurus :  she  's  used 
'  beast '  twice  in  two  lines.  .  .  ." 

He  continued :  "  '  How  dared  you  run  away  last  night  ? 
You  promised.  I  was  counting  on  you.  I  am  disgusted 
with  you  and  never  want  to  see  your  face  again.  Return 
at  once.  Perhaps  you  won't  be  too  late  after  all.  Impera- 
tive. J  insist  that  you  return/  " 


50  JOAN    THURSDAY 

The  signature  was  simply:    "Helena." 

He  said  with  considerable  animation :  "  But  —  damn  it ! 
—  I  don't  want  to  get  married  yet !  I  don't  see  what  I  've 
done  .  .  ." 

Throwing  back  his  shoulders  and  lifting  a  defiant  chin, 
he  announced  with  invincible  determination :  "  I  won't  go. 
That 's  all  there  is  about  it.  I  will  —  not  —  go !  .  .  . 

"  Besides/'  he  argued  plaintively,  "  I  could  n't  travel 
like  this  —  clothes  all  out  of  shape  from  that  drenching 
last  night  —  no  time  to  change  —  !  " 

Consultation  of  his  watch  gave  flat  contradiction  to  this 
assertion. 

"  And  besides,  I  'm  just  getting  this  thing  started 
nicely !  "  This  with  reference  to  the  play. 

With  another  groan  even  more  soulful  than  the  first  he 
sat  down  at  the  table,  seized  the  telephone  in  a  savage 
grasp,  and  in  prematurely  embittered  accents  detailed  a 
suburban  number  to  the  inoffensive  central  operator.  In 
the  inevitable  three  minutes'  wait  for  the  connection  to 
be  put  through  he  found  ample  opportunity  to  lash  him- 
self to  a  frenzy  of  exasperation. 

"  Hello !  "  he  roared  suddenly.  "  Hel-lo,  I  say !  .  .  . 
Who  is  this?  .  .  .  Oh,  you,  eh,  Swinton?  This  is  Mr. 
Matthias.  .  .  .  No  —  I  say,  no !  Don't  call  Mrs.  Tanker- 
ville.  Have  n't  time.  .  .  .  Just  tell  her  I  'm  coming  down 
on  the  six-thirty.  .  .  .  Yes.  .  .  .  And  send  something  to 
meet  me  at  the  station.  .  .  .  Yes.  Good-bye." 


VI 

JOAN'S  was  an  awakening  of  another  order;  like  the 
thoroughly  healthy  animal  she  was,  the  moment  her  eyes 
opened  she  was  vividly  and  keenly  alive,  completely  ac- 
quainted with  her  situation,  in  full  command  of  every 
faculty. 

With  no  means  of  determining  the  time  save  by  instinct, 
she  was  none  the  less  sure  that  the  hour  was  n't  late :  not 
late,  at  all  events,  for  people  who  did  n't  have  to  be  behind 
counters  by  half-past  eight.  So  she  lay  still  for  many 
minutes,  on  the  worn  leather  couch,  listening  intently. 
There  was  a  great  hush  in  the  lodging-house :  not  a  foot- 
fall, not  a  sound.  Yet  it  was  broad  daylight  —  a  clear 
and  sunny  morning. 

Her  quick  eyes,  reviewing  the  room  in  this  new  light, 
realized  the  substance  of  a  dream  come  true.  She  liked 
it  all :  the  high  and  dusty  ceiling,  the  immense  and  gloomy 
bookcases,  the  disorderly  writing-table,  the  three  sombre 
and  yellowing  steel  engravings  on  the  walls,  the  bare, 
beaten  path  that  crossed  the  carpet  diagonally  from  door 
to  window,  the  roomy  and  dilapidated  chairs,  even  the 
faint,  intangible,  ineradicable  smell  of  tobacco  that  haunted 
the  air,  even  the  generous  cushion  beneath  her  head. 

Against  this  last  she  cuddled  her  cheek  luxuriously,  a 
shadowy  smile  softening  her  lips,  her  lashes  low.  She  was 
enchanted  by  the  novel  atmosphere  of  this  roomy  cham- 
ber, an  atmosphere  of  studiousness  and  clear  thinking. 
And  her  thoughts  focussed  sharply  upon  her  memories  of 
the  early  morning  hours,  especially  those  involving 
the  man  who  had  put  himself  out  to  shelter  her.  She  was 
consumed  with  curiosity  about  him  and  all  that  concerned 
him.  In  her  inexperience  she  found  it  rather  more  than 


52  JOAN    THURSDAY 

difficult  to  associate  his  courtesy,  his  solicitude  and  gen- 
erosity with  his  aloofness,  abstraction  and  detachment: 
the  type  was  new  and  difficult  to  classify. 

Was  it  true,  then,  that  Man  —  flesh-and-blood  Man  as 
differentiated  from  the  romantic  abstractions  that  swag- 
gered through  the  chapters  of  the  ten-cent  weekly  libraries 
—  could  be  disinterested  with  Woman,  content  to  serve 
rather  than  be  served,  to  give  rather  than  take  ? 

On  the  one  side  stood  That  One  of  the  taxicab  adven- 
ture, together  with  John  Matthias :  arrayed  against  these, 
a  host  composed  of  Ben  Austins  and  Mr.  Winters  and  men 
with  knees  —  beasts  of  prey  who  stalked  or  lay  in  ambush 
along  all  the  trails  that  webbed  her  social  wilderness. 

Were  they  truly  different,  Matthias  and  that  other  one  ? 
Or  were  they  merely  old  enemies  in  new  masks?  How 
was  one  to  know  ?  .  .  . 

A  noise  in  the  basement,  the  rattle  of  a  kitchen  range 
being  shaken  clear  of  ashes,  startled  the  girl  to  her  feet 
in  a  twinkling.  However  sharp  her  inquisitiveness  and 
her  desire  to  see  and  to  know  more  of  this  man,  she  en- 
tertained no  idea  of  lingering  to  be  found  there  by 
him.  .  .  . 

After  bolting  the  door  and  before  surrendering  her  tired 
body  to  the  invitation  of  the  couch,  she  had  yielded  to  the 
temptation  to  make  a  brief  tour  of  enquiry.  The  result 
had  satisfied  her  that  Matthias  had  lied  in  one  particular, 
at  least:  unquestionably  this  was  his  workroom,  but  no 
less  surely  the  man  lived  as  well  as  worked  in  it,  much 
if  not  all  of  the  time.  In  its  eastern  wall  Joan  found  a 
door  opening  into  a  small  bedroom  furnished  with  almost 
soldierly  simplicity.  And  there  were  two  large  closets  in 
the  southern  wall  of  the  chamber;  in  one  she  found  his 
wardrobe,  a  staggering  array  of  garments,  neatly  arranged 
in  sharp  contrast  to  the  confusion  of  his  desk ;  the  other 
was  a  bath-room  completely  equipped,  a  dazzling  luxury 
in  her  eyes,  with  its  white  enamel,  nickel-plate,  glass  and 
porcelain  fittings. 


JOAN    THURSDAY  53 

She  refreshed  herself  there  after  rising  —  not  without 
a  guilty  sensation  of  trespass  —  returning  to  the  larger 
room  to  complete  her  dressing;  no  great  matter,  since  she 
had  merely  laid  aside  skirt,  coat,  and  shirtwaist,  and  loos- 
ened her  corsets  before  lying  down.  In  a  very  little  time 
then,  she  was  ready  for  the  street ;  but  with  her  hands  on 
the  doorknob  and  bolt,  she  hesitated,  looking  back,  reluc- 
tant to  go  a  thankless  guest. 

Slowly  she  moved  back  to  the  centre-table,  touching  with 
diffident  fingers  its  jumble  of  manuscripts,  typewriter- 
paper,  memoranda,  and  correspondence.  There  were  let- 
ters in  plenty,  a  rack  stuffed  with  them,  others  scattered 
like  leaves  hither  and  yon,  one  and  all  superscribed  with 
the  name  of  John  Matthias,  Esq.,  many  in  the  handwriting 
of  women,  a  few  scented,  but  very  faintly.  Joan  wondered 
about  these  women  and  his  relations  with  them.  Was  he 
greatly  loved  and  by  many  ?  It  would  not  be  strange,  she 
thought,  if  he  were.  .  .  . 

Her  temper  curiously  unsettled  by  these  reflections,  she 
stood  for  a  long  time,  staring  and  thinking.  Then  a  re- 
newed disturbance  in  the  lower  regions  of  the  house  sent 
her  packing  —  but  not  until  she  had  left  an  inadequate 
scrawl  of  thanks,  whose  poverty  and  crudity  she  felt  keenly. 
Why  had  she  never  learned  to  write  a  hand  of  delicately 
angular  distinction  to  bear  comparison  with  the  hands  that 
had  addressed  those  impeccably  "  correct "  notes  ?  .  .  . 

The  hallway  was  deserted.  She  let  herself  hastily  out, 
believing  she  had  escaped  detection. 

Sunlight  swept  the  street  from  side  to  side,  a  pitiless 
and  withering  blast.  Already  every  trace  of  last  night's 
shower  had  vanished,  blotted  up  by  an  atmosphere  all 
a-quiver  with  the  impetuous  passion  of  those  early,  slant- 
ing rays.  As  if  every  living  thing  had  been  driven  to 
shelter,  or  dared  not  venture  forth,  the  street  was  quiet 
and  empty.  In  violent  contrast,  the  tides  of  life  ran 
brawling  through  Longacre  Square  on  one  hand  '  and 
Eighth  Avenue  on  the  other. 


54  JOAN    THURSDAY 

Joan  turned  toward  the  latter,  moving  listlessly  enough 
once  she  had  gained  the  grateful  shadow  of  its  easterly 
sidewalks.  A  clock  in  the  window  of  a  delicatessen  shop 
told  her  the  hour  was  half-past  seven,  while  the  sight  of 
the  food  unattractively  displayed  proved  a  sharper  re- 
minder of  breakfast-time.  She  had  no  other  concern  in 
the  world  just  then.  It  would  be  hours  before  she  could 
accomplish  anything  toward  establishing  her  independence ; 
and  what  steps  she  was  to  take  toward  that  consummation 
remained  altogether  nebulous  in  her  understanding. 

She  had  not  gone  far  before  a  dairy  lunch  settled  the 
question  as  to  where  she  was  to  breakfast. 

It  was  a  small,  shabby,  dingy  place,  its  walls  plastered 
with  white  tiling  and  mirrors.  Joan's  order  comprised  a 
cup  of  brownish-yellow  liquid,  which  was  not  coffee,  and 
three  weighty  cakes  known  as  "  sinkers."  These  last  might 
have  been  crude,  childish  models  in  putty  of  the  popular 
American  "  hot  biscuit,"  but  were  larger  and  slightly 
scorched  on  top  and  bottom,  and  when  pried  open  revealed 
a  composition  resembling  aerated  clay.  Joan  anointed 
them  generously  with  butter  and  consumed  them  with  evi- 
dent relish.  Her  powers  of  digestion  were  magnificent. 
The  price  of  the  meal  was  ten  cents.  She  went  away  with 
a  sense  of  repletion  and  seventy-two  cents. 

She  turned  northward  again.  An  empty  day  of  arid 
hours  confronted  her  perturbed  and  questioning  imagina- 
tion. She  was  still  without  definite  plans  or  notion  which 
way  to  turn  for  shelter.  She  knew  only  that  everything 
must  be  settled  before  nightfall:  she  dared  not  trust  to 
find  another  John  Matthias,  she  could  not  sleep  in  the 
streets  or  parks,  and  return  to  East  Seventy-sixth  Street 
she  would  not.  She  had  her  own  exertions  to  rely  upon 
—  and  seventy-two  cents :  the  one  as  woefully  inadequate 
as  the  other. 

Near  Columbus  Circle  she  bought  a  copy  of  the  New 
York  World  for  the  sake  of  its  "  Help  Wanted  "  adver- 
tisements, and  strolled  on  into  Central  Park. 


JOAN    THURSDAY  55 

Here  she  found  some  suggestion  of  nature  rising  re- 
freshed from  its  over-night  bath  to  bask  in  sunlight.  The 
grass  was  nowhere  scorched,  and  in  shadowed  spots  still 
sparkled  with  rain-drops.  The  air  was  still,  steamy,  and 
heady  with  fragrance  of  vegetation.  Upon  this  artificial, 
rectangular  oasis  a  sky  of  robin's-egg  blue  smiled  benignly. 
A  sense  of  peace  and  friendly  fortunes  impregnated  the 
girl's  being.  Somehow  she  felt  serenely  sure  that  nothing 
untoward  could  happen  to  her.  The  world  was  all  too 
beautiful  and  kindly.  .  .  . 

She  discovered  a  remote  bench  and  there  unfolded  her 
newspaper  and  ran  hastily  through  its  advertising  columns, 
finding  one  reason  or  another  for  rejecting  every  opening 
that  seemed  to  promise  anything  in  the  nature  of  such 
employment  as  she  had  theretofore  known.  There  were 
no  cards  from  theatrical  firms  in  need  of  chorus-girls, 
and  nothing  else  interested  her.  She  was  now  obsessed  by 
two  fixed  ideas,  as  they  might  have  been  the  poles  of  her 
world:  she  was  going  on  the  stage;  she  was  not  going 
back  behind  a  counter. 

Yet  she  must  find  a  way  to  live  until  the  stage  should 
open  its  jealous  doors  to  her.  .  .  . 

The  morning  hours  ebbed  slowly,  with  increasing  heat. 
From  time  to  time  Joan,  for  one  reason  or  another,  would 
drift  idly  on  to  another  bench. 

Once,  as  she  sat  dreaming  with  vacant  eyes,  she  was 
roused  by  the  quick  beating  of  muffled  hoofs,  and  looked 
up  in  time  to  see  a  woman  on  horseback  pass  swiftly  along 
a  bridle-path,  closely  pursued  by  a  man,  likewise  mounted. 
The  face  of  the  horsewoman  burned  bright  with  pleasure 
and  excitement  and  her  eyes  shone  like  stars  as  she  glanced 
over-shoulder  at  her  distanced  escort.  She  rode  well  and 
looked  very  trim  and  well  turned  out  in  her  habit  of  light- 
coloured  linen.  Joan  thought  her  charming  —  and  un- 
speakably blessed. 

Later  they  returned;  but  now  their  horses  walked  se- 
dately side  by  side;  and  the  woman  was  smiling  softly, 


56  JOAN    THURSDAY 

with  her  eyes  downcast,  as  she  listened  to  her  companion, 
who  bent  eagerly  close  to  her  and  spoke  in  a  low  and  in- 
timate voice. 

For  hours  afterwards  Joan  was  haunted  by  the  memory, 
and  rent  with  envious  longing.  A  hundred  times  she  pic- 
tured herself  in  the  place  of  the  horsewoman;  and  the 
man  at  her  side  wore  always  the  manner  and  the  aspect 
of  John  Matthias.  .  .  . 

About  two  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  she  lunched  meagrely 
on  crackers-and-milk  at  another  dairy  establishment  on 
Columbus  Avenue  —  reducing  her  capital  to  sixty-one 
cents.  Then,  recrossing  the  park,  she  made  her  way  back 
through  the  sweltering  side-streets  toward  her  late  home. 
She  arrived  in  time  to  see  her  father's  burly  figure  lum- 
bering heavily  up  the  street.  His  gaze  was  to  the  side- 
walk, his  mind  upon  the  poolrooms,  his  thick,  pendulous 
lower  lip  quivered  with  incessant,  inaudible  repetition  of 
race-track  names  and  records.  He  would  not  have  recog- 
nized Joan  had  he  looked  directly  at  her.  And  he  did  n't 
look. 

She  was  safe,  now,  to  make  her  final  visit  to  the  flat. 
Thursby  could  be  counted  on  not  to  return  before  six 
o'clock.  She  hastened  across  the  street  and  up  the  narrow, 
dark  and  noisome  stairway.  .  .  . 

Seated  at  the  dining-table,  over  an  array  of  dishes  dis- 
coloured with  the  residue  of  the  mid-day  stew,  her  mother, 
seemingly  more  immaterial  than  ever,  merely  lifted  shad- 
owed and  apathetic  eyes  to  Joan's  face  as  she  entered. 
Edna,  on  the  contrary,  jumped  up  with  a  hushed  cry  of 
surprise  not  untouched  by  alarm. 

"Joan!" 

The  girl  assumed  a  confident  swagger.  It  was  borne  in 
upon  her,  very  suddenly,  that  she  must  prove  a  ready  liar 
in  answer  to  the  storm  of  questions  that  was  about  to 
break. 

"  Hello,  people !  "  she  cried  cheerfully.  "  How  's  every- 
thing 2 " 


JOAN    THURSDAY  57 

"  Did  n't  the  Old  Man  meet  you  on  the  stairs  ?  "  de- 
manded Edna  in  a  frightened  breath. 

"  Nope :  I  waited  till  he  'd  turned  the  corner,"  Joan 
returned  defiantly.  "  Anyway  I  ain't  afraid  of  him. 
What  'd  he  say,  last  night,  after  I  was  gone  ?  " 

Edna  started  to  speak,  stammered  and  fell  still,  turning 
a  timid  gaze  to  her  mother. 

"  No  more  'n  he  said  before  you  went  out,"  said 
the  latter  listlessly.  "  He  won't  hear  of  your  coming 
back  —  " 

"  A  lot  I  care !  "  Joan  retorted  with  a  fling  of  her  head. 
"  All  I  'm  after  's  my  things.  I  Ve  done  enough  for  this 
family.  .  .  .  Now  I  ?m  going  to  look  out  for  Number 
One." 

The  mother  made  no  response.  She  seemed  no  longer 
to  see  Joan,  whose  bosom  swelled  and  palpitated  with  a 
suddenly-acquired  sense  of  personal  grievance. 

"  I  've  done  enough !  "  she  repeated  mutinously. 

Edna  said  in  a  tremulous  voice :  "  I  don't  know  what 
we  '11  do  without  you  —  " 

"  Do  as  I  done !  "  Joan  broke  in  hotly.  "  Go  out  and 
get  a  job  and  slave  all  day  long  so  's  your  father  won't 
have  to  support  his  family.  Go  on  and  try  it :  I  'm  sick 
and  tired  of  it !  " 

She  turned  and  strode  angrily  into  the  front  rooms. 
Edna  followed,  awed  but  inquisitive. 

Pulling  their  bed  out  from  the  wall,  Joan  disentangled 
from  the  accumulation  of  odds  and  ends  beneath  it  a  small 
suit-case  of  matting,  in  which  she  began  to  pack  her  scanty 
store  of  belongings :  all  in  embittered  silence,  ignoring  her 
sister. 

"  Where  'd  you  stay  last  night  ? "  Edna  ventured,  at 
length. 

"  With  a  friend  of  mine,"  Joan  answered  brusquely. 

"  Who  ?  "  the  other  persisted. 

Joan  hesitated  not  one  instant;  the  lie  was  required 
to  save  her  face. 


58  JOAN    THURSDAY 

"  Maizie  Dean,  if  you  got  to  know." 

"  Who  's  Maizie  Dean  ?  I  never  heard  you  speak  of 
her  —  " 

"  Lizzie  Fogarty,  then,"  said  Joan  roughly.  "  She  used 
to  work  with  me  at  the  stocking  counter.  Then  she  went 
on  the  stage.  Now  she  's  making  big  money." 

"  Is  she  going  to  get  you  a  job  ?  " 

"  Of  course  —  foolish !  " 

"Where's  she  live?" 

"  Down  in  Forty-fifth  Street,  near  Eighth  Avenue." 

"  What 's  the  number  of  the  house  ?  " 

"  What  do  you  want  to  know  for  ?  " 

"  Ain't  you  going  back  there  ?  " 

Joan  shut  down  the  lid  of  the  suit-case  and  began  to 
strap  it.  "  Yes,"  she  said  with  a  trace  of  reluctance. 

"  I  might  wanta  write  to  you,"  insisted  Edna.  "  Any- 
thing might  happen  and  you  not  know  —  " 

"  Oh,  well,  then,"  Joan  admitted,  with  an  air  of  ex- 
treme ennui,  "  the  number  's  Two-eighty-nine.  Catch  that  ? 
Don't  forget." 

"  I  won't." 

"  Besides,"  Joan  added,  lifting  her  voice  for  the  benefit 
of  the  listener  in  the  dining-room,  "  you  don't  need  to  be 
so  much  in  a  rush  to  think  I  ain't  ever  coming  back  to 
see  you.  You  got  no  right  to  think  that  of  me,  after  the 
way  I  've  turned  in  my  pay  week  in  and  week  out,  right 
straight  along.  I  don't  know  what  makes  you  think  I  've 
turned  mean.  I  'm  going  to  come  and  see  you  and  ma 
every  week,  and  as  soon  's  I  begin  to  make  money  you  '11 
get  your  share,  all  right,  all  right !  " 

"  Joan  —  "  the  younger  girl  whispered,  drawing  nearer. 

"What?" 

"  They  had  a  nawf ul  row  last  night  —  ma  and  pa  — 
after  you  went." 

"  I  bet  he  done  all  the  rowing !  " 

"  He  "  —  Edna's  thin,  pale  cheeks  coloured  faintly  with 
indignation  —  "  he  said  rotten  things  to  her  —  said  it  was 


JOAN    THURSDAY  59 

because  you  took  after  her  made  you  want  to  go  on  the 
stage." 

"  That 's  like  him,  the  brute !  "  Joan  commented  between 
her  teeth.  "  What  'd  she  say  ?  " 

"  Nothing.  Then  he  lit  into  Butch,  but  Butch  stood  up 
to  him  and  told  him  to  shut  his  face  or  he  'd  knock  his 
block  off." 

"  And  he  did  shut  his  face,  did  n't  he  ?  " 

Edna  nodded  vigorously.  "  Yeh  —  but  he  rowed  with 
ma  for  hours  after  they  'd  went  to  bed.  I  could  hear 
him  fussing  and  swearing.  She  never  answered  one 
word." 

Reminiscences  of  like  experiences  of  her  own,  long 
white  nights  through  which  she  had  lain  sleepless,  listen- 
ing to  the  endless,  indistinguishable  monologue  of  recrimi- 
nation and  abuse  in  the  adjoining  bedroom,  softened  Joan's 
mood. 

She  returned  to  the  dining-room. 

Her  mother's  head  had  fallen  forward  on  arms  folded 
amidst  the  odious  disorder  of  unclean  dishes.  Through 
a  long  minute  Joan  regarded  with  sombre  eyes  that  un- 
lovely and  pitiful  head,  with  its  scant  covering  of  greyish 
hair  stretched  taut  from  nape  to  temple  and  brow  and 
twisted  into  a  ragged  knot  at  the  back,  with  its  hollowed 
temples  and  sunken  cheeks,  its  thin  and  stringy  neck 
emerging  from  the  collar  of  a  cheap  and  soiled  Mother 
Hubbard.  With  new  intentness,  as  if  seeing  them  for  the 
first  time,  she  studied  the  dejected  curve  of  those  toil-bent 
shoulders,  and  the  lean  red  forearms  with  their  gnarled 
and  scalded  hands. 

Dull  emotions  troubled  the  girl,  pity  and  apprehen- 
sion entering  into  her  mood  to  war  with  selfishness  and 
obstinacy. 

This  drudge  that  was  her  mother  had  once  been  a  woman 
like  herself,  straight  and  strong  and  fashioned  in  clean, 
firm  contours  of  wholesome  flesh.  To  what  was  due  this 
dreadful  metamorphosis  ?  To  the  stage  ?  Or  to  Man  ? 


60  JOAN    THURSDAY 

Or  to  both?  .  .  .  Must  she  in  the  end  become  as  her 
mother  was,  a  battered  derelict  of  womanhood,  hopeless 
of  salvage? 

Slipping  to  her  knees,  she  passed  an  arm  across  the 
thin,  sharp  shoulders  of  the  woman. 

"  Ma  .  .  ."  she  said  gently. 

The  response  was  a  whisper  barely  audible,  her  name 
breathed  in  a  sigh:  "  Joan  .  .  ." 

Beneath  her  warm,  strong  arm  there  was  the  faintest 
perceptible  movement  of  the  shoulders. 

"  Listen  to  me,  ma :  I  ain't  going  to  forget  you  and 
Edna.  I  am  going  to  work  hard  and  take  care  of 
you." 

The  mother  moved  her  head  slightly,  turning  her  face 
away  from  her  daughter.  Otherwise  she  was  wholly  un- 
responsive. Joan  might  have  been  talking  to  the  deaf. 

She  divined  suddenly  something  of  the  tragedy  and 
despair  of  this  inarticulate  creature  whose  body  had  borne 
her,  who  had  once  been  as  her  daughter  was  now.  Before 
her  mental  vision  unfolded  a  vast  and  sordid  tapestry  — 
a  patchwork-thing  made  up  of  hints,  innuendoes  and 
snatches  of  half-remembered  conversations,  heretofore 
meaningless,  of  a  thousand-and-one  insignificant  circum- 
stances, individually  valueless,  assembling  into  an  almost 
intelligible  whole:  picturing  in  dim,  distorted  perspective 
the  history  of  her  mother,  drab,  pitiful,  appalling.  .  .  . 

Abruptly,  bending  forward,  Joan  touched  her  lips  to  the 
sallow  cheek. 

"  Good-bye,"  she  said  stiffly;  "  I  got  to  go." 

She  rose.  Her  mother  did  not  move.  Edna  stared 
wonderingly,  as  though  a  bystander  at  a  scene  of  whose 
meaning  she  was  ignorant.  Joan  took  up  her  suit-case 
and  went  to  the  door. 

"  S'long,  kid,"  she  saluted  her  sister  lightly.  "  Take 
good  care  of  ma  while  I  'm  away.  See  you  before  long." 

She  hesitated  again  in  the  open  doorway,  with  her  hand 
on  the  knob. 


JOAN    THURSDAY  61 

"  And  tell  Butch  I  said  thanks." 

She  was  half-way  down  to  the  next  landing  before  she 
became  aware  of  Edna  bending  over  the  banisters. 

"Joan  —  " 

"  What  ? " 

The  girl  paused. 

"  I  'most  forgot :  Butch  said  if  you  was  to  come  in  to 
tell  you  to  drop  around  to  the  store  th'safternoon.  Said 
he  had  something  to  tell  you." 

"  What  ?  "  demanded  Joan,  incredulous. 

"  I  dunno.     He  just  said  that  this  morning." 

"  All  right.    Good-bye." 

"  Good-bye,  Joan." 

To  eyes  dazzled  by  ambition,  the  news-stand,  shouldered 
on  either  side  by  a  prosperous  delicatessen  shop  and  a 
more  prosperous  and  ornate  corner  saloon,  wore  a  look 
unusually  hopeless  and  pitiful :  it  was  so  small,  so  narrow- 
chested,  so  shabby! 

Its  plate-glass  show-window,  dim  with  the  accumulated 
grime  of  years,  bore  in  block  letters  of  white  enamel  — 
with  several  letters  missing  —  the  legend: 

A   THUE  BY 

Newsd     ler  &  Stationer 
igars  &  Con       tionery 

Before  the  door  stood  a  wooden  newspaper  stand,  painted 
red  and  black,  advertising  the  one-cent  evening  sheet  which 
furnished  it  gratis.  A  few  dusty  stacks  of  papers  orna- 
mented it.  The  door  was  wide  open,  disclosing  an  in- 
terior furnished  with  dirt-smeared  show-cases  which  housed 
a  stock  of  cheap  cigars  and  tobacco,  boxes  of  villainous 
candy  to  be  retailed  by  the  cent's-worth,  writing-paper  in 
gaudy,  fly-specked  packages,  magazines,  and  a  handful 
of  brittle  toys,  perennially  unsold.  The  floor  was  seldom 
swept  and  had  never  been  scrubbed  in  all  the  nine  years 
that  Thursby  had  been  a  tenant  of  the  place. 


62  JOAN    THURSDAY 

The  establishment  was,  as  Joan  had  anticipated,  in  sole 
charge  of  Butch,  who  occupied  a  tilted  chair,  his  lean 
nose  exploring  the  sporting  pages  of  The  Evening  Journal. 
Inevitably,  a  half-consumed  Sweet  Caporal  cigarette  or- 
namented his  cynic  mouth.  He  greeted  Joan  with  a 
flicker  of  amusement. 

"  'Lo,  kid !  "  he  said :  and  threw  aside  the  paper. 
"What's  doing?" 

"  Edna  said  you  wanted  to  see  me." 

"  Yeh :  that 's  right."  Butch  yawned  liberally  and 
thrust  his  hat  to  the  back  of  his  head. 

"  Well  ?  "  said  the  girl  sharply.    "  What  do  you  want  ?  " 

Butch  delayed  his  answer  until  he  had  inserted  a  fresh 
cigarette  between  his  lips,  lighted  it  from  the  old,  and  in- 
haled deeply.  Interim  he  looked  her  over  openly,  with  the 
eyes  of  one  from  whom  humanity  has  no  secrets. 

"  Dja  land  that  job  ? "  he  enquired  at  length,  smoke 
trickling  from  his  mouth  and  nostrils,  a  grim  smile  lurk- 
ing about  his  lips. 

"  Have  n't  tried  yet." 

"  But  you  're  goin'  to  ?  " 

"  Of  course." 

"  What  line  ?    Chorus  girl  or  supe  in  the  legit  ?  " 

"  I  'm  going  to  try  to  do  anything  that  turns  up,"  Joan 
affirmed  courageously. 

"  Try  anythin'  once,  eh  ?  "  murmured  the  boy  with 
profound  irony.  "  Well,  where  you  goin'  to  hang  out  till 
you  land  ? " 

The  lie  ran  glibly  off  her  tongue  this  time :  "  With 
Maizie  Dean  —  Two-eighty-nine  West  Forty-fifth." 

"  That  where  you  stayed  last  night  ?  " 

"  Yes  .  .  ."  she  faltered,  already  beginning  to  repent 
and  foresee  unhappy  complications  in  event  Butch  should 
try  to  find  her  at  the  address  she  had  given. 

The  boy  got  up  suddenly  and  stood  close  to  her,  search- 
ing her  face  with  his  prematurely  knowing  eyes. 

"  Look  here,  kid !  "  he  said  roughly.     "  Hand  it  to  me 


JOAN    THURSDAY  63 

straight  now:  on  the  level,  there  ain't  no  man  mixed  up 
in  this  ? " 

She  was^  able  to  meet  his  gaze  without  a  tremor :  "  On 
the  dead  level,  Butch." 

"  That 's  all  right  then.     Only  .  .  ." 

"Only  what?" 

"  There  '11  be  regular  trouble  for  the  guy,  if  I  ever  find 
out  you  've  lied  to  me." 

"  What  business  —  " 

"  Ah,  cut  that !  "  snarled  Butch.  "  You  're  my  sister 
—  see  ?  And  you  're  a  damn'  little  fool,  and  somebody  's 
got  to  look  out  for  you.  And  that  means  me.  You  go 
ahead  and  try  this  stage  thing  all  you  like  —  but  duck  the 
men,  duck  'em  every  time !  " 

He  eyed  her  momentarily  from  a  vast  and  aloof  coign 
of  vantage.  She  was  dumb  with  resentment,  oppressed 
by  amazement  and  a  little  in  awe  of  the  boy,  her  junior 
though  he  was. 

"  Now,  lis'en :  got  any  money  ?  " 

"  No  —  yes  —  fifty  cents,"  she  stammered. 

"  That  ain't  goin'  to  carry  you  far  over  the  bumps. 
Who  's  goin'  to  put  up  for  you  while  you  're  lookin'  for 
this  job-thing  ?  Your  frien'  Maizie  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  —  I  guess  so  —  yes :  I  'm  going  to  stay 
with  her." 

"  Well,  you  won't  last  long  if  you  don't  come  through 
with  some  coin  every  little  while." 

Without  warning  Butch  produced  a  small  packet  of  bills 
from  his  trouser-pocket. 

"  Djever  see  them  before  ?  "  he  enquired,  with  his  mock- 
ing smile. 

Joan  gasped :  "  My  money  —  !  " 

"  Uh-huh,"  Butch  nodded.  "  Fell  outa  your  bag  when 
you  side-stepped  the  Old  Man  and  beat  it,  last  night.  He 
did  n't  see  it,  and  I  sneaked  the  bunch  while  he  was  n't 
lookin'.  G'wan  —  take  it." 

He  thrust  the  money  into  her  fingers  that  closed  convul- 


64.  JOAN    THURSDAY 

sively  upon  it.  For  a  moment  she  choked  and  gulped,  on 
the  verge  of  tears,  so  overpowering  was  the  sense  of  relief. 

"O  Butch—  !" 

"  Ah,  cut  that  out.  It 's  your  money,  all  right  —  ain't 
it?" 

She  began  with  trembling  fingers  to  count  the  bills. 
Butch  tilted  his  head  to  one  side  and  regarded  her  with 
undisguised  disgust. 

"  Say,  you  must  have  a  swell  opinion  of  me,  kid,  to 
think  I  'd  hold  out  on  you !  " 

She  stared  bewildered. 

"  There  's  twenty-two  dollars  here,  Butch !  " 

Her  hand  moved  out  as  if  offering  to  return  the  money. 
With  an  angry  movement  he  slapped  it  back  and  turned 
away. 

"  That 's  right,"  he  muttered  sourly.  "  I  slipped  an 
extra  ten  in.  I  guess  I  gotta  right  to,  ain't  I  ?  You  're 
my  sister,  and  you  '11  need  it  before  you  get  through,  all 
right." 

She  lingered,  stunned.  "  But,  Butch  ...  I  ought  n't 
to  .  .  ." 

"Ah,  can  that  guff  —  and  beat  it.  The  Old  Man's 
liable  to  be  back  any  minute." 

Seizing  her  suit-case,  he  urged  her  none  too  gently 
toward  the  door. 

"  It  'a  awful'  good  of  you,  Butch  —  awful'  good  — 

"  All  right  —  all  right.  But  can  the  gush-thing  till  next 
time." 

Overwhelmed,  Joan  permitted  herself  to  be  thrust  out 
of  the  door;  and  then,  recovering  to  some  extent,  masked 
her  excitement  as  best  she  could  and  trudged  away  across- 
town,  back  toward  Central  Park. 

Blind  instinct  urged  her  to  that  refuge  where  she  would 
have  quiet  and  peace  while  she  thought  things  out:  a 
necessity  which  had  not  existed  until  within  the  last  fifteen 
minutes. 

Before  her  interview  with  Butch  she  had  been  penniless 


JOAN    THURSDAY  65 

and  planless.  But  now  she  found  herself  in  circumstances 
of  comparative  affluence  and  independence.  Twenty-two 
dollars  strictly  economized  surely  ought  to  keep  her  fed 
and  sheltered  in  decent  lodgings  for  at  least  three  weeks ; 
within  which  time  she  would  quite  as  surely  find  employ- 
ment of  some  sort. 

It  remained  to  decide  how  best  to  conserve  her  re- 
sources. On  the  face  of  the  situation,  she  had  nothing 
to  do  but  seek  the  cheapest  and  meanest  rooming-house 
in  the  city.  But  in  her  heart  of  hearts  she  had  already 
determined  to  return  to  the  establishment  of  Madame 
Duprat,  beyond  her  means  though  it  might  be,  ostensibly 
to  await  the  return  of  the  Dancing  Deans,  secretly  that  she 
might  be  under  the  same  roof  with  John  Matthias. 

And  in  the  end  it  was  to  Number  289  that  she  turned. 
At  half-past  four  she  stood  again  on  the  brownstone  stoop, 
waiting  an  answer  to  her  ring. 

And  at  the  same  moment,  John  Matthias,  handsomely 
garbed  in  the  best  of  his  wardrobe  but  otherwise  invested 
in  a  temper  both  indignant  and  rebellious,  instituted  a 
dash  from  room  to  train,  handicapped  by  a  time-limit 
ridiculously  brief. 

As  the  front  door  slammed  at  his  back,  he  pulled  up 
smartly  to  escape  collision  with  the  girl  on  the  stoop.  He 
looked  at  and  through  her,  barely  conscious  of  her  pretty, 
pallid  face  and  the  light  of  recognition  in  her  eyes. 
Then,  with  a  murmured  apology,  he  dodged  neatly  round 
her,  swung  down  the  steps,  and  frantically  hailed  a  passing 
taxicab. 

Joan,  dashed  and  disappointed,  saw  the  vehicle  swing 
in  to  the  curb  and  heard  Matthias,  as  he  clambered  in, 
direct  the  driver  to  the  Pennsylvania  Station  with  all 
possible  haste. 

She  stared  after  the  dwindling  cab  disconsolately.  He 
had  n't  even  known  her ! 

In  another  minute  she  would  have  turned  her  back  on 
the  house  and  sought  lodgings  elsewhere,  but  the  door 


66  JOAN    THURSDAY 

abruptly  opened  a  second  time,  revealing  Madame  Duprat, 
a  forbidding  but  imperative  figure,  upon  the  threshold. 

Timidly  in  her  confusion  the  girl  made  some  semi- 
articulate  enquiry  as  to  the  address  of  Miss  Maizie  Dean. 

To  her  astonishment  and  consternation,  the  landlady  un- 
bent and  smiled. 

"  Ah !  "  she  exclaimed  with  unction.  "  Mademoiselle 
is  the  friend  of  Monsieur  Matthias,  is  it  not  ?  Very  good. 
Will  you  not  be  pleased  to  enter?  It  is  but  this  after- 
noon that  the  Sisters  Dean  have  returned  so  altogether 
unexpectedly." 


VII 

ALONE  in  the  body  of  a  touring-car,  Helena  Tankerville, 
a  slender  and  fair  woman  in  white,  as  cool  and  fresh  to 
look  upon  as  the  day  was  hot  and  weary  to  endure,  con- 
sulted her  bracelet-watch,  shrugged  recklessly,  and  lifted 
her  parasol  an  inch  or  so  to  enable  her  to  level  an  im- 
perious stare  at  the  point  where  the  straight,  shining  lines 
of  railroad  track  debouched  from  the  western  woodland; 
as  if  expecting  the  very  strength  of  her  impatience  to 
conjure  into  sight  the  overdue  train. 

She  was  very  pretty  and  prettily  dressed  and  sure  of 
herself;  there  were  evidences  of  temper  and  determina- 
tion mixed  with  disquietude  in  her  manner;  and  there 
was  no  one  in  her  present  neighbourhood  (except  possibly 
her  chauffeur)  of  whose  existence  she  considered  it  worth 
her  while  to  be  aware.  None  the  less,  she  was  conscious 
that  she  was  visible.  .  .  . 

A  faint  puff  of  vapour  bellied  above  the  distant  screen 
of  pines.  Immediately  a  far,  mellow,  prolonged  hoot 
turned  all  faces  toward  the  west.  A  rakish,  low-lying 
locomotive  with  a  long  tail  of  coaches  emerged  from  the 
woodland  and,  breathing  forth  vast  volumes  of  smoke, 
fled  a  pursuing  cloud  of  dust,  straight  as  an  arrow  to  the 
station;  where,  panting  with  triumph  and  relief,  as  one 
having  won  a  race,  it  drew  in  beside  the  platform. 

Incontinently,  upwards  of  two  hundred  people,  the 
majority  of  them  men  in  apparently  comfortable  circum- 
stances, well  dressed  to  the  standards  of  summer  negli- 
gence, swarmed  out  of  the  cars  and  ran  hither  and  yon, 
heedlessly  elbowing  one  another  and  gabbling  vocif- 
erously as  they  sought  accommodation  in  the  long  rank 


68  JOAN    THURSDAY 

of  station-wagons,  'buses,  surreys,  smartly  appointed  traps, 
and  motor-cars. 

Helena,  bending  forward,  overlooked  them  all  with  im- 
perceptible disdain.  The  face  she  sought  was  not  among 
those  that  swam  in  review  beneath  her.  And  presently 
encountering  an  overbold  glance,  she  drew  back  with  a 
little  frown  of  annoyance.  Already  the  throng  was  thin- 
ning; conveyances  laden  to  the  guards  were  drawing  out 
of  the  rank  and  rattling  and  rumbling  off  through  stifling 
drifts  of  dust ;  no  more  passengers  were  issuing  from  the 
coaches ;  and  already  the  parlour-car  porters  were  picking 
up  their  stools  and  preparing  to  swing  back  aboard  the 
train.  The  conductor  waved  his  final  signal.  The  bell 
tolled  its  warning.  The  locomotive  belched  black  smoke 
and  cinders  and  amid  stentorian  puffings  began  to  move, 
the  coaches  following  to  their  tune  of  clanking  couplings. 
No  sign  of  her  refractory  nephew.  And  still  Helena 
hesitated  to  give  the  order  to  drive  home;  John  had 
telephoned ;  it  was  n't  like  him  to  be  delinquent  in  his 
promises. 

The  end  of  the  last  car  was  passing  her  when  she  saw 
him.  He  appeared  suddenly  on  the  rearmost  platform, 
with  the  startled  expression  and  air  of  a  Jack-in-the-box; 
dropped  his  suit-case  over  the  rear  rail;  ran  down  the 
steps;  delayed  an  instant  to  gauge  distance  and  speed: 
and  with  nice  calculation  dropped  lightly  to  the  ground. 

Pausing  only  to  recover  his  luggage,  he  approached  the 
motor-car  with  a  sheepish  smile  for  his  handsome  young 
aunt,  who  regarded  him  with  an  air  of  mingled  bewilder- 
ment and  despair. 

"  Wel-1 !  "  she  exclaimed,  as  soon  as  he  was  near  enough 
to  hear  —  "  of  all  things  —  !  " 

"  Right  you  are !  "  he  affirmed  gravely,  tossing  his  hand- 
bag into  the  car  and  following  it.  "  Kick  along,  Davy," 
he  added,  with  a  nod  to  the  chauffeur;  and  gracefully 
sank  back  upon  the  seat  beside  Helena. 

Purring,  the  car  began  to  grope  its  way  through  the 


JOAN    THURSDAY  69 

dust-fog.  Matthias  turned  twinkling  eyes  to  his  aunt. 
She  compressed  her  lips  and  shook  her  head  helplessly. 

"  Words  inadequate,   aunty  ?  " 

"  Quite !  "  she  said.  "  What  were  you  doing  on  that 
train,  to  come  so  near  forgetting  the  station  ?  " 

"Thinking,"  he  explained:  "wrapped  in  profound 
and  exhaustive  meditation.  I  say,  how  stunning  you 
look!" 

She  gave  him  up;  or  one  inferred  as  much  from  her 
gesture. 

"  You  're  impossible,"  she  said  in  a  tragic  voice. 
"  Thinking !  .  .  .  While  /  had  to  wait  there  and  be 
ogled  by  all  those  odious  men !  " 

"  You  must  've  been  ready  to  sink  through  the  ground." 

She  eyed  him  stonily.     "  You  did  n't  care  —  !  " 

"  Even  if  I  had  n't  been  preoccupied,  it  would  never 
have  entered  my  head  that  you  seriously  objected  to  being 
admired." 

She  received  this  in  injured  silence.  Matthias  chuckled 
to  himself  and  settled  more  comfortably  into  his  seat. 
The  motor-car  turned  off  the  main  road  from  the  station 
to  the  village  of  Port  Madison,  down  which  the  greater 
number  of  its  predecessors  had  clattered,  and  found  un- 
clouded air  on  a  well-metalled  lane  bordered  with  aged 
oaks  and  maples.  Through  a  funnel-like  dip  between 
hills,  Matthias,  looking  past  his  aunt,  caught  a  fleeting 
glimpse  of  the  cluttered  roofs  of  Port  Madison,  its  shallow, 
land-locked  harbour  set  with  a  little  fleet  of  pleasure 
boats,  and  the  ineffable,  burning  blue  of  the  distant 
Sound.  .  .  . 

"  I  presume,"  Helena  returned  to  the  charge,  disarm- 
ingly  aggrieved,  "  you  think  I  ought  to  be  grateful  for 
your  condescending  to  return  at  all !  " 

"  Forgive  me,"  he  pleaded,  not  altogether  insincerely ; 
"  I  know  it  was  n't  right  of  me  to  run  away  like  that,  but 
I  could  n't  help  it" 

"  You  could  n't  help  it !  "  she  murmured  despairingly. 


70  JOAN    THURSDAY 

"  That 's  just  the  way  of  it.  I  got  to  thinking  about 
a  play  I  wanted  to  write,  yesterday  afternoon,  and  — 
well,  along  about  ten  o'clock  it  got  too  strong  for  me. 
I  just  had  to  get  back  to  my  typewriter.  You  know  how 
that  is." 

"  I  ?    What  do  I  know  about  your  silly  play-writing  ?  " 

Laughing,  he  bent  nearer  and  patted  the  gloved  hand  on 
the  cushions  beside  him.  "  You  know  perfectly  well, 
Helena  dear,  what  it  is  to  want  to  do  something  so  bad 
you  simply  can't  help  yourself.  It 's  the  Matthias  blood  in 
both  of  us.  That 's  why  you  ran  off  and  married  Tanker- 
ville  against  everybody's  advice.  Of  course,  it  did  turn 
out  beautifully ;  but  you  did  n't  stop  to  wonder  whether 
it  would  or  not  when  you  took  it  into  your  head  to  marry 
him.  The  same  with  me :  you  decide  that  it 's  high 
time  for  your  delightful  sister-in-law  to  get  married,  and 
you  look  round  and  fix  on  your  dutiful  nephew  for  the 
bridegroom-elect  —  wholly  because  you  want  it  to  be  that 
way." 

"  Don't  you  ?  "  she  demanded  sharply. 

He  took  a  moment  to  think  this  over.  "  I  suppose  I 
do,"  he  admitted  almost  reluctantly.  "  But  —  ' 

"  You  're  in  love  with  her !  "  Helena  declared  with 
spirit. 

"  Quite  true,  but  —  " 

"  Then  why,"  she  begged  in  tones  of  moderate  exas- 
peration —  "  why  do  you  object  —  hang  fire  —  run  away 
like  a  silly,  frightened  schoolboy  as  soon  as  I  get  every- 
thing arranged  for  you  ?  " 

"  But,  you  see,  I  'm  not  in  a  position  to  get  married 
yet,"  he  argued.  "  I  have  n't  —  " 

"  How  's  that  —  '  not  in  a  position'  ?  "  she  interrupted 
testily. 

"  You  keep  forgetting  I  'm  the  family  pauper,  the  poor 
relation,  whereas  Venetia  has  all  the  money  there  is,  more 
or  less." 

"  There  you  are !  "  Helena  turned  her  palms  out  ex- 


JOAN    THURSDAY  71 

pressively ;  folded  them  in  resignation.  "  What  more 
can  you  ask  ?  " 

"  Something  more  nearly  approaching  an  equal  footing, 
at  least." 

"  Jack !  "  —  she  turned  to  him  with  a  fine  air  of  inno- 
cence —  "  how  much  money  have  you  got,  anyway  ?  " 

"  Thirty-six  hundred  per  annum,  as  you  know  very 
well,"  he  replied.  "  But,  my  dear,  dear  aunty  (you  're 
one  of  the  most  beautiful  creatures  alive  and  I  'm  awfully 
proud  and  fond  of  you)  surely  you  must  understand  that 
no  decent  fellow  wants  to  go  to  the  girl  he  's  in  love  with 
and  make  a  proposition  like  this :  1 1  've  got  thirty-six 
hundred  and  you  've  got  three  hundred  and  sixty  thou- 
sand ;  let 's  marry  and  divide.' ' 

"  How  long  have  you  been  writing  plays  ?  " 

"  Oh  .  .  .  several  years." 

"  And  how  many  have  you  written  ?  " 

"  Quite  a  few." 

"  And  how  much  have  you  made  at  it  ?  " 

"  Next  to  nothing,  but  —  " 

"  Then  why  do  you  persist  ?  " 

"  Because  it 's  the  thing  I  want  to  do." 

"  But  you  can't  make  any  money  at  it  —  " 

"  I  may  make  a  lot  before  long.  Meanwhile,  I  like 
it." 

"  But  if  you  'd  only  listen  to  reason  and  let  Tanker- 
ville  — " 

"  With  all  the  best  intentions  in  the  world,  dear  Helena, 
Tankerville  could  n't  make  me  a  successful  business  man. 
It  is  n't  in  me.  Permit  me  to  muddle  along  in  my  own, 
'special,  wrong-headed  way,  and  the  chances  iare  I  '11 
make  good  in  the  end.  But,  once  and  for  all,  I  refuse 
positively  to  give  up  my  trade  and  try  to  make  sense  of 
Wall  Street  methods." 

Helena  moved  her  shoulders  impatiently.  For  an  in- 
stant she  was  silenced.  Then :  "  But  marriage  need  n't 
necessarily  put  an  end  to  your  playwriting.  A  good 


72  JOAN    THURSDAY 

marriage  —  as  with  Venetia  —  ought  even  to  help,  I 
should  think." 

"  But  you  persist  in  forgetting  I  'm  not  a  fortune 
hunter." 

"  But,"  she  countered  smartly,  "  Marbridge  is." 

He  said :    "  Oh  —  Marbridge !  "  as  if  dumbfounded. 

She  smiled  quietly,  a  very  wise  and  superior  smile. 

To  this  point  the  car  had  been  steadily  ascending; 
the  noise  of  the  motor,  together  with  the  frequent  stutter- 
ings  of  the  exhaust  with  the  muffler  cut-out,  had  been 
sufficient  to  disguise  the  substance  of  their  communica- 
tion from  the  ears  of  the  operator.  Now,  however,  they 
surmounted  the  highest  point  and  began  the  more  gradual 
descent  to  the  Tankerville  estate.  And  with  less  noise 
there  was  consequently  very  little  talking  on  the  part 
of  the  two  on  the  rear  seat.  For  which  Matthias  was  n't 
altogether  sorry.  He  wanted  time  to  think  —  to  think 
about  Venetia  Tankerville  in  the  new  light  cast  upon  her 
by  his  aunt's  concluding  remark:  as  affected  by  her 
friendship  with  Vincent  Marbridge. 

In  the  natural  swing  of  events,  it  would  never  have 
occurred  to  him  to  consider  Marbridge's  attentions  seri- 
ously. Nobody  ever  took  Marbridge  seriously,  he  be- 
lieved, aside  from  a  few  exceptionally  foolish  women.  .  .  . 

Noiselessly  the  car  slipped  down  a  mile-long  avenue 
to  the  brow  of  a  promontory.  On  either  hand  Tangle- 
wood's  long  parked  terraces  fell  away  to  the  water:  on 
the  left  the  harbour  of  Port  Madison,  on  the  right,  Long 
Island  Sound. 

Matthias  was  barely  conscious  of  these  things ;  his  mood 
was  haunted  by  an  extraordinarily  clear  vision  of  Vin- 
cent Marbridge:  not  tall,  but  by  no  means  short;  a 
trifle  stout,  but  none  the  less  a  well-knit  figure  of  a  man, 
and  tremendously  alive;  dark,  with  a  broad,  blunt,  good- 
humoured  face  and  seal-brown  eyes  that  were  exceed- 
ingly handsome  and  expressive;  keen-witted  and  accom- 
plished, knowing  almost  everybody  and  every  place  and 


JOAN    THURSDAY  73 

thing  worth  knowing;  hedonist  and  egoist,  selfish,  un- 
scrupulous, magnetic,  fascinating. 

Impressed,  Matthias  frowned.  His  aunt  eyed  him 
covertly,  with  a  sly,  semi-affectionate,  semi-malicious 
smile  shadowing  her  mouth. 

Slackening  its  pace,  the  car  took  the  wide  semicircle  of 
the  drive  and  slid  sedately  to  a  dead  stop  by  the  carriage- 
block.  Matthias  pulled  himself  together,  jumped  out,  and 
gave  his  hand  to  his  aunt.  They  turned  toward  the 
house. 

Tankerville's  pretentious  marble  palace  crowned  the 
brow  of  the  headland  with  an  effect  as  exquisite  as  a 
dream  of  an  ancient  French  chateau  realized  in  snow. 
For  this  its  owner  had  his  wife  to  thank.  Helena,  unable 
to  curb  her  husband's  desire  for  the  most  expensive  and 
ostentatious  place  obtainable,  had  at  least  guided  his  choice 
of  design.  It  was  too  magnificent,  it  was  overpowering, 
but  it  was  beautiful;  and  it  was  more  than  ever  beau- 
tiful at  this  hour,  with  its  walls  in  part  bathed  in  a 
rose-pink  light  of  sunset,  in  part  shadowed  as  with  a 
wash  of  violet,  and  with  all  its  admirable  proportions 
stark  against  the  dusky  sapphire  of  the  Sound. 

An  unwonted  stillness  clung  about  the  place.  Matthias 
wondered. 

"  It  might  be  the  palace  of  the  Sleeping  Beauty,"  he 
said.  "  Why  this  deadly  and  benumbing  silence  ? 
What  —  " 

"  Oh,  simply  that  Tankerville  decided  this  morning 
to  take  everybody  down  to  Huntington  for  lunch.  They 
got  away  quite  early,  in  the  Enchantress.  Come  out  on 
the  terrace;  we'll  look  for  them." 

They  passed  through  a  wide,  cool,  panelled  hallway. 

"  Why  did  n't  you  go  ?  " 

"  You  know  I  hate  the  water.  Besides,  I  had  a  head- 
ache —  at  least,  I  had  one  until  the  Enchantress  got 
under  way;  and  furthermore  I  meant  to  stay  at  home 
and  meet  you  and  talk  it  out." 


74  JOAN    THURSDAY 

"  Venetia  went,  of  course  ?  " 

"  Of  course  —  and  Marbridge  —  and  everybody !  " 

He  grunted  thoughtfully.  They  descended  to  a  terrace 
which  jutted  airily  out  over  the  edge  of  a  cliff,  with  a 
sheer  drop  of  a  hundred  and  fifty  feet  to  the  beach. 

Helena,  dropping  languidly  into  a  wicker  chair,  mo- 
tioned Matthias  to  the  broad  marble  balustrade. 

"  Any  sign  of  the  Enchantress,  O  perturbed  nephew  ?  " 

He  lingered  there  for  an  instant,  marvelling  with  an 
inexhaustible  wonder  at  the  magnificent  sweep  of  the 
view,  then  remembering,  raked  the  waters  until  he  dis- 
covered Tankerville's  power-cruiser  standing  in  toward 
the  dock  from  the  bottle-neck  mouth  of  Port  Madison 
harbour. 

Returning,  he  reported,  seated  himself  near  his  aunt, 
lighted  a  cigarette. 

"  Why  did  you  ask  him  here  anyway  ? "  he  demanded 
abruptly. 

"  Who  ?  "  she  parried  mischievously. 

"  Marbridge,  of  course,"  he  admitted,  sulking  in  the 
face  of  her  manifest  amusement. 

"  Jealous,  Jackie  ?  " 

"  Oh  —  if  you  insist." 

She  laughed.  "  The  most  encouraging  symptom  you  Ve 
yet  betrayed !  .  .  .  I  did  n't  ask  him.  Tankerville  did. 
He  likes  him.  The  man  's  amusing,  after  all." 

"  But  you  like  him  ?  " 

"  He  amuses  me." 

"  He  's  not  precisely  a  tame  cat  ..." 

"  Dear  boy !  "  she  laughed  again,  "  I  did  n't  fetch  you 
out  here  to  worry  about  me.  I  'm  fire-proof.  Venetia  's 
quite  another  pair  of  shoes.  Fret  about  her  as  much  as 
you  like." 

"  When  does  he  go  —  Marbridge,  I  mean  ?  " 

"  Monday,  I  think.  At  least,  I  believe  Tankerville 
asked  him  for  a  week  only." 

"  And  that 's  why  you  asked  me,  this  particular  week  ?  " 


JOAN    THURSDAY  75 

"  I  thought  you  'd  be  a  good  counter-irritant ;  and 
hoped  you  'd  come  to  your  senses  and  secure  Venetia 
against  all  Marbridges  for  all  time  to  come.  You  gave 
me  to  understand  you  would." 

"  Pardon,"  he  corrected  a  trifle  stiffly :  "  I  admitted 
to  you  in  strict  confidence  that  I  was  in  love  with  Venetia. 
I  never  promised  to  ask  her  to  marry  me." 

"  Well,  that 's  what  I  understood  you  to  mean.  And 
anyway,  you  'd  better.  Neither  Tankerville  nor  I  can 
control  the  girl ;  she  's  her  own  mistress  and  headstrong 
enough  to  be  a  good  match  for  any  Matthias  that  ever 
lived.  If  Marbridge  ever  convinces  her  that  she  likes 
him  .  .  ." 

She  concluded  with  an  eloquent  ellipsis. 

"  Probably,"  mused  Matthias  after  prolonged  delibera- 
tion, "  I  'd  have  lost  my  head  before  this  if  it  had  n't 
been  so  full  of  that  play." 

Helena  smiled  indulgently.  "  It 's  not  too  late  .  .  . 
I  hope." 

Troubled,  he  rose,  walked  to  the  balustrade,  jerked  his 
cigarette  into  space,  and  returned. 

"  As  between  one  fortune-hunter  and  another,"  he  said 
gloomily,  "  I  'm  conceited  enough  to  think  myself  the 
safer  bet." 

His  aunt  smiled  more  openly :  "  See  what  Venetia 
thinks." 

"  I  will !  "  said  Matthias  with  a  fine  air  of  inalterable 
determination. 


VIII 

SINCE  it  was  her  whim  and  the  winds  indulged,  Helena 
had  ordered  that  the  rite  of  the  late  dinner  be  celebrated 
by  candlelight  alone.  Ten  shaded  candles  graced  the 
places.  In  the  centre  of  the  table  an  ancient  candelabrum 
of  gold  added  the  mellow  illumination  of  its  seven  ala- 
baster arms,  whose  small  flames  yearned  upward  ardently, 
with  scarce  a  perceptible  flicker,  though  every  window  was 
wide  to  the  whispering  night. 

One  of  these  that  faced  Matthias  framed  a  shimmering 
sky  of  stars  and  the  still  black  shield  of  the  Sound,  on 
which  the  fixed  and  undeviating  glare  of  a  remote  light- 
house was  reflected  darkly,  a  long  unwavering  way  of 
light;  he  thought  of  a  tall  wax  candle  burning  amid  the 
sanctified  shadows  of  some  vast  and  dark  and  still 
cathedral.  .  .  . 

They  were  ten  at  table:  from  Helena's  right,  Pat 
Atherton  ( Tankerville's  partner)  a  Mrs.  Majendie,  Mar- 
bridge,  a  Mrs.  Cardrow,  Tankerville  at  the  head;  on 
his  right,  Mrs.  Pat  Atherton,  Matthias,  Venetia  Tanker- 
ville, Majendie.  The  latter  and  his  wife  were  almost 
strangers  to  Matthias,  having  arrived  only  the  previous 
afternoon :  but  he  thought  them  as  pleasant  and  handsome 
people  as  any  of  those  with  whom  the  Tankervilles  liked 
to  fill  their  house.  The  Athertons  were  old  friends;  he 
had  known  them  well,  long  before  Helena  dreamed  of 
marrying  Tankerville.  Marbridge  was  an  indifferently 
familiar  figure  in  the  ways  of  his  life;  they  frequented 
the  same  clubs,  and  of  late  he  had  begun  to  encounter  the 
older  man  more  and  more  frequently  in  his  theatrical 
divagations.  Remained  Mrs.  Cardrow,  a  widow,  the 


JOAN    THURSDAY  77 

acquaintance  of  a  week's  standing.  Cardrow  had  been  in 
some  way  connected  with  the  enterprises  of  Messrs. 
Tankerville  &  Atherton ;  how,  Matthias  did  n't  remember ; 
a  man  of  whom  rumour  said  little  that  was  good  until  it 
began  to  say  De  mortuis  .  .  .  He  had  killed  himself  for 
no  accountable  reason.  His  widow  seemed  to  have  sur- 
vived bereavement  with  amazing  grace. 

Matthias  admired  her  greatly.  Women,  he  knew  — 
Helena  in  their  number  —  mistrusted  her  for  no  cause 
perceptible  to  him.  He  liked  her,  thought  her  little  less 
than  absolutely  charming.  So,  evidently,  did  Marbridge, 
whose  attitude  toward  her  this  evening  was  a  little  more 
noticeably  attentive  than  ever  before.  He  seemed  to  exert 
himself  to  interest  and  divert.  His  black  eyes  snapped. 
As  he  talked  his  heavy  body  swayed  slightly  from  the 
hips,  lending  an  accent  to  his  animation.  His  laugh  was 
frequent  and  infectious. 

She  was  a  woman  who  smiled  more  than  she  laughed. 
She  smiled  now,  inscrutably,  her  beautiful,  insolent  eyes 
half  veiled  with  demure  lashes,  her  face  turned  to  Mar- 
bridge,  her  chin  a  trifle  high,  bringing  out  the  clear  strong 
lines  of  her  throat  and  shoulders,  which  had  the  texture, 
the  pallor,  and  the  firmness  of  fine  ivory.  Her  eyes,  when 
she  chose  to  discover  them,  were  brown,  her  eyebrows 
almost  black,  her  hair  dull  gold,  the  gold  of  the  candela- 
brum—  the  gold  of  artifice,  on  the  word  of  Helena. 

Perhaps  it  was  to  this  odd  colouring  —  ivory  and 
brown,  black  and  gold  —  that  Mrs.  Cardrow  owed  most 
of  her  strange  and  provoking  quality.  But  there  was 
something  else,  something  one  could  not  define:  at  once 
stimulating  and  elusive ;  less  charm  than  allure ;  nameless ; 
that  attracted  and  repelled.  .  .  . 

These  were  thoughts  set  stirring  by  a  dozen  semi- 
curious  glances  at  the  woman,  in  pauses  in  his  con- 
versation with  Venetia.  Matthias  was  in  fact  indifferent 
to  Mrs.  Cardrow.  But  he  was  tremendously  interested 
in  Venetia.  It  could  hardly  be  otherwise  —  since  his 


78  JOAN    THURSDAY 

talk  with  Helena.  He  was  to  marry  Venetia.  Amazing 
thought ! 

She  was  adorable.  Of  the  other  women,  none  compared 
with  Mrs.  Cardrow:  even  Helena's  beauty  paled  in  con- 
trast. But  Venetia  was  to  Mrs.  Cardrow  as  dawn  to 
noon.  One  looked  at  Venetia  and  thought  of  a  still  sea 
at  daybreak,  mobile  to  the  young  and  fitful  airs,  radiant 
with  sunlight,  breathless  with  apprehension  of  the  long, 
golden  hours  to  come.  One  looked  at  Mrs.  Cardrow  and 
thought  —  of  Woman.  Venetia  was  dark,  and  the  other 
fair;  Venetia  was  by  no  means  a  child,  Mrs.  Cardrow 
not  yet  thirty.  The  gulf  that  set  them  apart  was  not 
so  much  of  years  as  of  caste:  they  lived  and  thought 
on  different  levels,  mental  if  not  social.  Matthias  liked 
to  think  Venetia  of  the  higher  order. 

He  was  to  marry  her.    Incredible ! 

And  tonight  her  eyes  were  warm  and  kind  for  him, 
and  all  for  him.  He  could  not  see  that  there  was  any- 
thing of  self-interest  in  the  infrequent  glances  she  cast  at 
those  who  sat  opposite,  playing  their  time-old  game 
with  such  engaging  candour.  If  she  had  thought  much 
of  Marbridge,  surely  she  must  have  betrayed  some  little 
pique  or  chagrin.  She  was  not  blind;  neither  was  she 
patient  and  prone  to  self-effacement.  Matthias  had  known 
her  long  enough  to  have  garnered  vivid  memories  of  her 
resentment  of  slights,  whether  real  or  fancied.  She  was 
unique  and  wonderful  in  many  ways,  but  (he  told  him- 
self in  a  catch-phrase  of  the  hour)  she  was  essentially 
human.  He  could  not  have  cared  for  a  woman  without 
temper :  he  cared  intensely  for  this  girl- woman  whose  rare 
loveliness  seemed  almost  exotic  in  its  singular  scheme, 
whose  skin,  fine  of  texture  and  colourless  as  milk-white 
satin,  was  splashed  with  lips  of  burning  scarlet,  whose 
eyes  of  deepest  violet  were  luminous  in  the  shadow  of 
hair  of  the  richness  and  lustre  of  burnished  bronze  .  .  . 
luminous  and  kind  to  him:  he  dared  to  hope  greatly  of 
their  sympathy. 


JOAN    THURSDAY  79 

Through,  dinner  she  had  entertained  him  with  a  mirth- 
ful, inconsecutive  narrative  of  the  adventures  of  the  day. 
]N  ow,  as  ices  were  served,  her  interest  swerved  suddenly 
and  found  a  new  object  in  himself. 

"  Why  did  you  run  away  last  night  ?  " 

"  You  really  noticed  it  ?  " 

Light  malice  trembled  on  her  lips :  "  Not  till  this 
morning." 

"  You  were  so  busy  "  —  an  imperceptible  nod  indicated 
Marbridge  — "  I  felt  myself  becoming  ornamental. 
Whereas,  utility  's  my  proudest  attribute.  So  I  left  you 
dancing,  and  skipped  by  the  light  of  the  moon." 

"Not  really?" 

"  I  assure  you  —  " 

"  Put  out  with  me,  I  mean  ?  " 

He  sought  her  eyes  again  and  found  them  veiled  and 
downcast.  "  Not  the  least  in  the  world." 

"  Then,  again,  why  —  ? " 

"  I  wanted  to  get  back  to  work.  Besides,  I  had  a 
little  business  with  a  manager." 

And  so  he  had;  but  until  this  moment  he  had  for- 
gotten it. 

"  Play  business  ?  " 

"  I  'm  afraid  I  know  no  other." 

"  Is  something  new  to  be  produced  ?  " 

Matthias  nodded :  "  Goes  into  rehearsal  in  August. 
A  melodrama  I  wrote  some  time  ago  — f  The  Jade 
God.'  " 

"Who  produces  it?" 

"  Rideout." 

"Who's  he?" 

"  A  foolish  actor :  played  a  sketch  of  mine  in  vaudeville 
for  a  couple  of  years  and,  because  that  got  over,  thinks 
this  piece  must." 

"  But  it  will,  won't  it  ?  " 

"  I  hope  so ;   but  I  'm  glad  it 's  not  my  money." 

"  And  where  will  you  open  ?  " 


80  JOAN    THURSDAY 

"  Heaven  and  the  Shuberts  only  know.  Hideout  books 
through  the  Shuberts,  you  understand." 

"I'm  afraid  I  don't." 

"  The  Shuberts  are  the  Independents  —  the  opposition 
to  the  Syndicate  headed  by  Klaw  and  Erlanger.  You 
see,  the  theatres  of  this  country  are  practically  all  con- 
trolled by  one  or  the  other  combination.  If  you  want 
booking  for  your  show,  you  've  got  to  take  sides  —  serve 
God  or  Mammon." 

"  And  which  is  which  ?  " 

"  The  difference  is  imperceptible  to  the  innocent  by- 
stander." 

"  But  you  '11  let  us  know  —  ?  " 

"  If  we  open  within  motoring  distance  of  Town  — 
rather !  " 

Tankerville,  edging  his  plump  little  body  forward  on 
his  chair,  manoauvred  his  round  and  sun-scorched  face 
in  vain  attempts  to  catch  his  wife's  eye  past  the  inter- 
vening candelabrum.  Helena,  however,  divined  his  desire. 

"  Coffee  in  the  card-room,  George  ?  " 

"  Please !  "   Tankerville  bleated  plaintively. 

There  was  a  concerted  movement  from  the  table. 

Venetia  lingered  with  Matthias. 

"  It 's  auction,  tonight.     Shall  you  play  ?  " 

"  'Fraid  I  '11  have  to.  So  will  you.  Helena  —  you 
know  —  " 

"  Of  course.  We  must.  Only  "  —  she  sighed,  petulant 
—  "  I  'd  rather  not.  I  'd  rather  talk  to  you." 

"  Heroic  measures !  "  he  laughed.  "  But  —  consola- 
tion note !  —  we  're  two  over  two  full  tables.  Therefore 
we  '11  have  to  cut  in  and  out.  That  '11  give  us  some  time 
to  ourselves." 

"  Yes,"  she  agreed :  "  but  it  '11  be  just  our  luck  to 
be  disengaged  at  different  times." 

He  paused  in  amused  incredulity.  "  Do  you  really 
want  to  talk  to  me  as  badly  as  all  that  ? " 

She  nodded,  curtaining  her  eyes. 


JOAN    THURSDAY  81 

"  Very  much,"  she  said  softly. 

They  entered  the  card-room  and  were  summoned  to 
different  tables.  Matthias  cut  and  edged  Mrs.  Cardrow 
out  by  a  single  pip.  How  Venetia  fared  he  did  not  learn, 
more  than  that  she  was  to  play  while  Marbridge  was  to 
stay  out  the  first  rubber. 

He  played  even  less  intelligently  than  usual,  with  a 
mind  distracted.  Venetia's  new  attitude,  pleasant  as  had 
been  all  their  association,  was  a  development  of  discon- 
certing suddenness ;  or  else  he  had  been  witless  and  blind 
beyond  relief.  And  yet  —  how  could  he  say  ?  He  was  so 
frequently  misled  by  faculties  befogged  with  dreaming, 
that  overlooked  when  they  did  not  flatly  deny  the  obvious : 
it  was  possible  that  Helena  had  been  more  wise  than  he. 

A  sense  of  strain  handicapped  his  judgment;  whether 
atmospheric  or  bred  of  his  own  emotion,  he  could  not  tell. 
And  yet,  plumbing  the  deeps  of  his  humour,  he  discovered 
nothing  there  more  exacting  than  bewilderment,  more 
exciting  than  hope.  On  the  other  hand,  he  could  fix 
upon  nothing  in  the  bearing  of  these  amiable  people  to 
lead  him  to  believe  that  the  feeling  of  tensity  to  which 
he  was  susceptible  was  not  the  creation  of  his  own  fancy. 
They  played  with  a  certain  abandon  of  enjoyment,  ab- 
sorbed in  their  diversion.  .  .  . 

Looking  past  Venetia,  at  the  other  table  —  Venetia 
slim  and  tall  and  worshipful  in  a  wonderful  black  gown 
that  rendered  dazzling  the  whiteness  of  her  flesh  —  he 
could  see  Mrs.  Cardrow  and  Marbridge  at  the  piano  in 
the  drawing-room.  The  woman  sat  all  but  motionless, 
white  arms  alone  moving  graciously  in  the  half-light  as 
her  deft  hands  wandered  over  the  key-board.  Marbridge, 
his  arms  folded,  lounged  over  the  piano,  his  back  to  the 
card-room.  The  eloquent  movements  of  his  round,  dark 
head,  its  emphatic  nods  and  argumentative  waggings, 
seemed  to  indicate  that  he  was  bearing  the  burden  of  their 
talk;  but  the  music,  hushed  though  it  was,  covered  his 
accents.  The  woman  was  looking  up  into  his  face  with 


82  JOAN    THURSDAY 

an  expression  of  quick,  pleased  interest,  her  lips,  half- 
parted,  smiling. 

It  did  not  occur  to  Matthias  to  wonder  about  the  sub- 
stance of  their  conversation.  But  for  a  sure  clue  to 
the  intrigue  of  Venetia's  heart  —  and  his  own  —  he 
would  have  given  worlds. 

Throwing  down  his  cards,  Tankerville  announced  with 
satisfaction :  "  Game  —  rubber.  Jack,  you  go  out  — 
praise  the  Saints !  You  've  cost  Mrs.  Pat  close  onto  fifteen 
dollars,  more  shame  to  you !  " 

"  Sorry !  "  Matthias  smiled  cheerfully,  rising.  "  You 
would  have  me  play." 

"  Hearkening  and  repentance !  "  retorted  Tankerville. 
"  Next  time  I  marry,  you  can  bet  your  sweet  life  I  'm 
going  to  pick  out  a  family  of  sure-'nough  bridgers  .  .  . 
Call  Mrs.  Cardrow,  will  you  now,  like  a  good  fellow." 

But  Mrs.  Cardrow  had  already  left  the  piano.  Matthias 
held  a  chair  for  her,  and  then,  since  the  rubber  at  the 
other  table  was  not  yet  decided,  strolled  to  a  window. 

The  night  tempted  him.  Almost  unconsciously  he 
stepped  out  upon  the  terrace  and  wandered  to  the  parapet. 

Abstractedly  he  lighted  a  cigarette.  When  the  tobacco 
was  aglow  he  held  the  match  from  him  at  arm's-length 
over  the  abyss.  Its  flame  burned  as  steadily  as  though 
protected,  flickering  out  only  when,  released,  it  fell.  No 
night  ever  more  still  than  this:  land  and  water  alike 
spellbound  in  breathless  calm;  even  on  the  brow  of  that 
high  foreland  where  Tankerville  had  builded  him  his 
lordly  pleasure  home,  no  hint  of  movement  in  the  air! 
And  yet  Matthias  was  conscious  of  nothing  resembling 
oppression.  —  exhilaration,  rather.  He  smiled  vaguely 
into  the  darkness. 

From  far  below,  echoing  up  from  the  placid  waters  of 
Port  Madison  as  from  a  sounding-board,  came  the  tinkle- 
tinkle  of  a  banjo  and  the  complaint  of  a  harmonica.  When 
these  were  silent  the  wailing  of  violins  was  clearly  aud- 
ible, bridging  a  distance  of  over  a  mile  across  the  harbour, 


JOAN    THURSDAY  83 

from  the  ball-room  of  the  country  club.  Far  out  upon 
the  Sound  the  night  boat  for  Boston  trudged  along  like 
a  slow-winging  firefly;  and  presently  its  wash  swept 
inshore  to  rouse  the  beach  below  to  sibilant  and  mur- 
murous protest.  In  the  east  the  vault  of  night  was 
pallid,  azure  and  silver,  with  the  promise  of  the  reluctant 
moon. 

A  hand  fell  gently  upon  his  arm:  Venetians.  He  had 
not  been  aware  of  her  approach,  yet  he  was  not  startled. 
He  turned  his  head  slowly,  smiling.  She  said  softly: 
"  Don't  say  anything  —  wait  till  it  rises." 

They  waited  in  silence.  Her  hand  lingered  upon 
his  arm;  and  that  last,  he  knew,  was  trembling.  The 
nearness  of  her  person,  the  intimacy  of  her  touch,  weighed 
heavily  upon  his  senses. 

An  edge  of  golden  light  appeared  where  the  skies  came 
down  to  the  sea;  hesitated;  increased.  That  wan  and 
spectral  light,  waxing,  lent  emphasis  to  the  rare  and 
delicious  wonder  of  her  loveliness,  to  the  impregnable 
mystery  of  her  womanhood.  He  regarded  her  with  some- 
thing near  awe,  with  keen  perception  of  his  unworthiness : 
as  a  spirit  from  Heaven  had  stooped  to  commune  with  him. 
She  lived;  breathed;  the  hand  upon  his  arm  was  warm 
and  strong  .  .  .  Incredible! 

The  gibbous  disk  swung  clear  of  the  horizon  and 
like  some  strange  misshapen  acrobat  climbed  a  low-lying 
lattice-work  of  clouds.  The  girl  turned  away  to  a  huge 
willow  basket-chair.  Matthias  found  its  fellow  and  drew 
near  to  her.  He  struggled  to  speak ;  he  fancied  that  she 
waited  for  him  to  speak ;  but  his  mind  refused  to  frame, 
his  tongue  to  utter,  aught  but  the  stalest  of  banalities. 

"  ISTo  dew  tonight,"  he  hazarded  at  length,  shame-faced. 

After  an  instant  of  silence  she  laughed  clearly  and 
gently.  "  O  romantic  man !  "  she  said.  "  Now  that  you 
have,  shattered  the  spell  —  if  you  please,  a  cigarette." 

He  supplied  this  need ;  held  a  match ;  delayed  holding 
it  when  it  had  served  its  purpose,  enraptured  with  the 


84  JOAN    THURSDAY 

refulgent  wonder  of  that  cameo  of  sweet  flesh  and  blood 
set  against  the  melting  shadows,  silver  and  purple  and 
blue. 

With  a  second  low,  light  laugh,  she  bent  forward  and 
daintily  extinguished  the  flame  with  a  single  puff. 

"  I  don't  wish  to  be  stared  at  .  .  ." 

"  Pardon,"  he  said  mechanically,  startled.  "  But 
.  .  .  why?" 

"  Perhaps  I  'm  afraid  you  may  see  too  much  .  .  ." 

"  Impossible !  "  he  declared  with  conviction. 

"  Odd  as  it  may  sound,"  she  said  in  a  mocking  voice, 
"  I  have  my  secrets." 

Her  back  was  to  the  moon,  her  face  a  pallid  oval  framed 
in  ebony,  illegible;  but  the  moonlight  was  full  upon 
his  face,  and  she  who  would  might  read.  His  disad- 
vantage was  obvious.  It  was  n't  fair.  .  .  . 

Lounging,  she  crossed  her  knees,  puffed  thrice  and  cast 
the  cigarette  into  the  gulf.  Abruptly  she  sat  forward, 
studying  him  intently.  He  was  disturbed  with  a  singular 
uneasiness. 

"  Jack,"  said  Venetia  very  quietly,  "  is  it  true  that 
you  love  me  ?  " 

"  Good  lord !  "  he  cried,  sitting  up. 

"Is  it  true?" 

He  blinked.  His  head  was  whirling.  He  said  noth- 
ing; sank  back;  quite  automatically  puffed  with  such 
fury  that  in  a  trice  he  had  reduced  the  cigarette  to  an 
inch  of  glowing  coal;  scorched  his  fingers  and  threw  it 
from  him. 

Then  he  gasped  stupidly :    "  Venetia !  " 

"Is  it  true?" 

She  had  not  moved.  The  question  had  tne  force  of 
stubborn  purpose  through  its  very  monotony,  a  monotony 
of  inflexion  no  less  than  of  repetition.  Her  accents  were 
both  serious  and  sincere.  She  was  in  earnest;  she  meant 
to  know. 

"  But,  Venetia  —  " 


JOAN    THURSDAY  85 

"  Or  have  you  been  just  making  believe,  all  this  long 
time  ?  " 

"It  —  I  —  why  —  of  course  it 's  true !  "  he  stammered 
lamely. 

"  Then  why  have  n't  you  ever  told  me  so  ?  " 

There  sounded  reproach,  not  unkindly,  but  real.  He 
shook  his  wits  together. 

"  How  could  I  guess  you  'd  care  to  know  ? " 

"  Do  you  know  me  so  little  as  to  think  I  'd  resent  it, 
if  I  happened  not  to  care  ?  " 

"I  —  don't  know  —  did  n't  think  of  it  that  way.  In 
fact  —  you  've  knocked  me  silly !  " 

"  But  why  ?  Because  I  've  been  straightforward  ? 
Dear  boy !  "  —  she  lifted  a  hand  to  him :  he  took  it  in 
trembling  — • "  you  're  twenty-seven,  I  'm  twenty-three.  We 
know  one  another  pretty  well :  we  know  ourselves  —  at 
least  slightly.  Why  can't  we  face  things  —  facts  —  as 
man  and  woman,  not  as  children  ?  What 's  the  good 
of  make-believe  ?  If  this  thing  lies  between  us,  let 's 
be  frank  about  it !  " 

He  hesitated,  doubting,  searching  her  face.  Her  look 
was  very  sweet  and  kind.  Of  a  sudden  he  cried  "  Vene- 
tia !  "  came  to  his  knees  beside  her  chair,  snatched  her 
hand  and  crushed  it  between  his  own,  to  his  lips. 

"  I  love  you  —  I  Ve  always  loved  you !  "  .  .  . 

He  felt  the  velvet  of  her  lips,  her  breath,  upon  his 
forehead;  and  made  as  if  to  clasp  her  to  him.  But  she 
slipped  back,  straightening  an  arm  to  fend  him  off. 

"  No,"  she  whispered  —  "  not  now  —  not  here.  Dear 
boy,  get  up !  Think  —  this  moonlight  —  anybody  might 
see  —  " 

"I  love  you!" 

"  I  know  and,  dear,  I  'm  glad  —  so  glad !  But  — 
you  made  me  ask  you !  " 

"  I  could  n't  help  that,  Venetia :  I  was  —  afraid ;  I 
hardly  dared  to  dream  —  of  this.  You  were  —  you  are 
—  above,  beyond  —  " 


86  JOAN    THURSDAY 

Gently  her  hand  sealed  his  mouth. 

"  Dear,  silly  boy !     Get  up.     If  you  won't,  I  must." 

Releasing  her  hand,  he  rose.  His  emotion  shook  him 
violently.  At  discretion,  he  dropped  back  into  his  chair. 
He  looked  about  him  a  little  wildly,  his  glance  embrac- 
ing all  the  weird  fantasy  of  the  night:  the  cold,  inac- 
cessible, glittering  vault  of  stars,  the  malformed  and  sar- 
donic moon,  the  silken  bosom  of  the  Sound,  the  lace  and 
purple  velvet  draperies  of  the  land.  Down  on  the  har- 
bour the  banjo  and  harmonica  were  ragging  to  tatters  a 
sentimental  ballad  of  the  day.  From  the  house  came  a 
burst  of  laughter  —  Tankerville  exultant  in  some  success- 
ful stratagem  at  cards. 

His  gaze  returned  to  Venetia.  She  sat  without  mov- 
ing, wrapped  in  the  exquisite  mystery  of  her  enigmatic 
heart,  bewitching,  bewildering,  steadfastly  reading  him 
with  eyes  veiled  and  inscrutable  in  liquid  shadow. 

Muttering  —  "  Preposterous !  "  —  he  dropped  his  head 
between  his  hands.  "  I  'm  mad  —  mad !  "  he  groaned. 

Without  stirring,  she  demanded :    "  Why  ?  " 

He  shook  his  head  free.  "  To  have  —  owned  up  — 
let  this  come  to  pass.  I  love  you :  but  that 's  all  I  dare 
say  to  you." 

"  Is  n't  it,  maybe,  enough  for  me  ?  " 

"  I  mean  —  I  'm  mad  to  marry  you.  But  how  can 
I  ask  you  to  have  me  ?  What  have  I  to  offer  you  \  The 
position  of  wife  to  a  poverty-stricken,  half-grown  play- 
wright !  It 's  out  of  reason.  .  .  ." 

"  But  possibly  —  am  I  not  the  one  to  judge  of  that  ? " 

"  No :  I  won't  have  you  marry  a  man  unable  to  provide 
for  you  in  the  way  to  which  you  've  been  educated. 
It 's  a  point  of  honour  —  " 

"But  I  have  —  " 

"  You  must  understand :  I  've  got  to  be  able  —  able !  — 
to  humour  your  every  whim.  With  things  that  way  — 
what  of  your  own  you  choose  to  spend  on  yourself  won't 
count.  The  issue  is  my  ability  to  give  you  everything." 


JOAN    THURSDAY  87 

"  But  that  will  come  —  " 

"  When  ?    I  can't  promise  —  I  hardly  dare  hope  —  " 

"  This  new  play  is  n't  your  only  hope  ?  " 

"No  —  " 

"  Success  or  failure,  you  '11  keep  on  ?  " 

"  Certainly  .  .  ." 

"  Then  it 's  only  a  question  of  time." 

"  But  you  —  how  can  I  ask  you  to  wait  ?  " 

"  There  's  no  necessity  —  " 

"  But  it  must  be."  He  rose,  unable  to  remain  still. 
"  Give  me  six  months :  I  've  got  another  piece  of  work 
under  way  —  and  others  only  waiting  their  turn.  In  six 
months  I  can  —  " 

"  No !  " 

The  monosyllable  brought  him  up  sharply.  He  stared. 
Her  white  arms,  radiant  in  that  clear,  unearthly  light, 
lifted  toward  him. 

"  If  you  want  me,  dear,"  she  said  in  a  voice  tense 
with  emotion  —  "  it  must  be  now  —  soon !  To  wait  — 
six  months  —  I  —  that 's  im —  " 

The  beautiful  modulations  of  Helena  Tankerville's 
voice  interrupted. 

Standing  in  one  of  the  windows  to  the  card-room, 
she  said  simply :  "  An  exquisite  night." 

Then,  coming  out  upon  the  terrace  and  seeing  Venetia 
and  Matthias,  she  moved  toward  them. 

"  Oh,  there  you  are,  Jack.     You  're  wanted  indoors." 

Matthias,  unable  quickly  to  regain  his  poise,  said 
nothing.  Venetia  answered  for  him,  calmly: 

"  He  can't  come." 

"What,  dear?" 

"  I  say,  he  can't  come,  Helena.     He  's  engaged." 

"Engaged!" 

Recovering,  Helena  bore  down  upon  them  with  a  little 
call  of  delight 

"  Not  really !  .  .  .  O  my  dears !     I  'm  so  glad !  " 

She  gathered  Venetia  into  her  arms. 


IX 

UNEEMAEKED  by  any  of  these,  Marbridge  stepped  out 
upon  the  terrace.  He  was  light  of  foot  like  most  men  of 
his  type;  his  voice,  unctuous  with  the  Southern  drawl 
which  he  affected  together  with  quaint  Southern  twists  of 
speech,  was  the  first  warning  they  had  of  his  approach. 

"  This  is  surely  one  powerful'  fine  night.  I  don't  won- 
der you-all  like  it  better  out  here  than  —  "  He  checked 
suddenly  in  both  words  and  action :  the  women  had  started 
apart.  "  Why !  "  he  added  slowly,  as  though  perplexed  — 
"  I  hope  I  don't  intrude  .  .  ." 

His  quick  dark  eyes  shifted  rapidly  from  Helena  to 
Venetia,  to  Matthias,  and  again  back  to  the  women,  dur- 
ing a  momentary  lull  of  embarrassment.  Then  Helena 
said  quietly: 

"  Not  in  the  least.  But  this  makes  you  the  first  to 
learn  the  news,  Mr.  Marbridge.  Venetia  and  my  nephew 
are  engaged  to  be  married." 

"  Engaged  —  !  "  The  man's  chin  slacked :  his  eyes 
widened ;  a  cigarette  fell  unheeded  from  his  fingers.  He 
smiled  a  trace  stupidly. 

"  Why !  "  —  he  recollected  himself  almost  instantane- 
ously —  "  this  certainly  is  some  surprise,  but  I  do  con- 
gratulate you  —  both !  " 

With  a  stride  he  seized  the  hand  Venetia  could  not 
refuse  him,  and  pressed  it  warmly.  "  You  're  the  luckiest 
man  I  ever  knew !  "  he  declared,  turning  to  clasp  hands 
with  Matthias. 

Instinctively  the  latter  met  his  powerful  grasp  with  one 
as  forceful.  "  Thank  you,"  he  said,  smiling  gravely  into 
the  other's  eyes.  Under  his  firm  but  pleasant  regard  they 


JOAN    THURSDAY  89 

wavered  and  fell,  then  steadied  with  a  glint  of  temper. 
Their  hands  fell  apart.  Marbridge  stepped  back. 

"  Perhaps  I  don't  know  you  well  enough,  Mr.  Matthias, 
to  congratulate  Miss  Tankerville  as  heartily  as  I  do  you; 
but  I  'm  persuaded  she  's  not  liable  to  make  any  serious 
mistake." 

Matthias  nodded  thoughtfully.  "  I  understand :  your 
intentions  are  excellent.  I  'm  sure  we  both  thank  you. 
Venetia  —  ?  " 

"  Mr.  Marbridge  is  very  amiable,"  said  the  girl,  a  hint 
of  mirth  modifying  her  composure.  "  But  I  'm  afraid, 
Helena,"  she  added  quickly  —  "if  you  don't  mind  —  I 
think  I  '11  go  to  my  room." 

To  Marbridge  she  gave  a  quaint  little  bow  that  was 
half  an  old-fashioned  courtesy,  robbed  of  formality  by 
her  spirited  smile:  to  Matthias  her  hand  and  a  gentle 
"  Good  night !  "  Taking  the  arm  of  her  sister-in-law,  she 
drew  her  toward  the  house. 

Watching  them  until  they  disappeared,  Marbridge 
chuckled  quietly. 

"  Took  my  breath  away !  "  he  declared.  "  Why,  I 
never  suspected  for  an  instant  .  .  . !  "  He  dropped 
heavily  but  with  characteristic  grace  into  a  chair.  "  It 
takes  you  quiet  boys  to  get  away  with  the  girls  like 
Venetia  —  all  fire  and  dash !  " 

"Yes,"  said  Matthias  reflectively:  "it  does  —  doesn't 
it  ?  Have  another  cigarette  ? "  He  offered  his  case. 
"  You  dropped  yours.  .  .  ." 

"  Thanks.  .  .  .  She 's  a  thoroughbred,  all  right.  I 
reckon  if  I  was  n't  a  mite  too  middle-aged,  maybe  I 
might  've  set  you  a  pace  that  you  'd  've  found  lively 
going." 

"  Well,  let 's  be  thankful  nothing  of  that  sort  hap- 
pened, at  all  events." 

Marbridge  looked  up  over  his  match  and  lifted  his 
brows ;  but  if  in  reality  a  retort  trembled  on  his  lips,  he 
thought  better  of  it;  and  before  either  spoke  again, 


90  JOAN    THURSDAY 

Tankerville    was    on    the    terrace,    brandishing    pudgy 
arms. 

"  Hey,  you !  "  he  called  fretfully.  "  Don't  you  know 
you  're  holding  us  all  up  ?  Come  on  in."  .  .  . 

But  the  game  held  less  attraction  for  Matthias  than 
ever,  and  after  another  and  final  failure  to  establish 
himself  in  Tankerville's  good  graces,  he  pocketed  his  losses, 
relinquished  his  place  to  Marbridge  and  —  with  even 
less  inclination  for  bed  than  for  cards  —  took  himself 
again  out  into  the  open  night.  But  now  the  terrace  was 
all  too  small  to  contain  his  spirits.  The  need  of  action  — 
movement,  freedom,  space  —  was  strong  upon  him.  Strid- 
ing away  down  the  drive  that  wound  like  a  broad  band  of 
whitewash  through  its  dark  bordering  lawns  and  darker 
coppices,  he  found  even  the  grounds  of  Tangle  wood  too 
constricted  for  the  extravagant  energy  that  animated  him ; 
and  took  to  the  broad  highways,  with  all  Long  Island 
free  to  his  tireless  spirit. 

For  several  hours  or  more  he  trudged  valiantly  hither 
and  yon,  with  little  or  no  notion  of  whither  he  went  — 
with  his  head  in  the  stars  and  his  feet  in  the  dust  and 
kicking  up  a  famous  smother  of  it  —  and  in  that  time 
was  wittingly  as  near  to  happiness  as  he  had  ever  been 
in  all  his  days.  The  faculty  of  coherent  thought  had 
passed  from  him  utterly,  but  it  passed  unmourned :  Vene- 
tia  was  his!  This  thought  alone  sufficed  him.  He  had 
neither  time  nor  inclination  to  entertain  those  doubts, 
those  questionings  and  apprehensions  which  had  beset 
him  in  saner  humour  theretofore.  It  mattered  nothing 
now  that  he  was  poor  and  she  wealthy,  nothing  that  all 
his  efforts  to  make  something  of  himself  had  thus  far 
proved  vain  and  fruitless.  She  loved  him:  it  was 
enough  .  .  . 

He  came  to  his  senses,  eventually,  long  enough  to  rec- 
ognize anew  the  grounds  of  Tanglewood.  Of  a  sudden 
his  impetuosity  had  run  out;  remained  the  pleasant  lan- 
guor of  a  healthy  body  thoroughly  exercised,  the  peace 


JOAN    THURSDAY  91 

4 

of  a  mind  vexed  by  no  insatiable  desire.  And  still  he 
was  not  sleepy.  Purposefully  he  retarded  his  footsteps, 
approaching  the  house  with  stealth,  eager  to  escape  ob- 
servation and  gain  his  room  unhindered.  Tomorrow 
would  be  soon  enough  to  submit  to  the  ordeal  of  con- 
gratulations. .  .  . 

It  was  with  a  shock  of  amazement  that  he  saw  the 
house  all  quiet  and  dark.  He  pulled  out  his  watch  and 
studied  its  face  by  moonlight,  finding  its  evidence  diffi- 
cult to  credit:  twenty  minutes  past  one  in  the  morning! 

Gingerly,  keeping  to  the  grass  in  order  that  the  gravel 
of  the  drive  might  not,  by  its  crunching  underfoot,  be- 
tray him  or  alarm  some  wakeful  member  of  the  house- 
hold, he  approached  the  front  door,  wondering  if  he  were 
locked  out,  and  —  not  without  amusement  at  his  self- 
contrived  predicament  —  what  to  do  if  he  were.  To  his 
relief  one-half  of  the  double  door  stood  a  foot  or  two 
ajar  —  thanks,  he  had  no  doubt,  to  the  thoughtfulness 
of  Helena  or  Tankerville.  Blessing  both  on  general  prin- 
ciples, he  entered,  shut  the  door  and  softly  shot  the  bolt; 
turned  in  deep  obscurity  to  grope  his  way  to  the  foot 
of  the  stairs;  but  paused  with  a  hand  on  the  newel- 
post  and  his  breath  catching  in  his  throat. 

In  the  hallway  above  a  night-light  was  burning  dim  and 
low  but  sufficiently  diffused  to  show  him  the  figure  of  a 
woman  silently  descending  the  stairway.  When  he  first 
became  aware  of  her  she  was  indeed  almost  within  arm's 
length:  a  shape  of  shadow  scarce  three  shades  lighter 
than  the  encompassing  gloom  .  .  .  Venetia,  possibly,  hav- 
ing waited  and  watched  for  him  from  her  windows 
overlooking  the  drive,  stealing  down  to  bid  him  that  good 
night  they  had  perforce  foregone  in  the  presence  of 
Helena  and  Marbridge.  .  .  . 

That  wild  and  extravagant  surmise  had  no  more  than 
entered  his  mind  when  he  found  the  woman  in  his  arms. 
She  gave  herself  into  them  with  a  gesture  of  abandonment, 
with  a  little  sigh  that  escaped  in  broken  measure,  mur- 


92  JOAN    THURSDAY 

murous  and  fond.  An  arm  that,  lifting,  flashed  naked  to 
the  shoulder  as  the  sleeve  of  her  negligee  fell  back,  en- 
circled his  neck  and  drew  down  his  head  to  hers.  And 
her  mouth  fastened  to  his  with  clinging  lips.  .  .  . 

Half  stunned  bj  receipt  of  that  mad  caress,  one  thought 
shot  like  light  through  the  turmoil  of  his  senses :  this  was 
never  Venetia! 

With  an  effort  he  straightened  his  neck  against  the 
pressure  of  the  woman's  arm.  She  strove  to  overcome  his 
resistance,  wooing  him  in  accents  hushed,  shaking  with 
passion : 

"  Vincent  .  .  .  sweetheart  .  .  .  !  " 

He  interrupted  hastily :  "  I  beg  pardon !  "  The  in- 
adequacy of  that  stilted  form  disgusting  him,  he  added: 
"  I  am  John  Matthias." 

Immediately  the  woman  released  him  and,  with  a  gasp, 
sank  back  against  the  newel-post.  Her  breath  came  gustily, 
with  a  sound  like  smothered  sobbing.  Pitifully  he  divined 
her  shame  and  terror ;  and  though  he  knew  her  very  well, 
beyond  mistake,  he  said  evenly :  "  Don't  worry  —  there 
is  n't  any  light." 

In  a  stupefied  voice  she  iterated :  "  No  light  —  ?  " 

"  It 's  so  confounded'  dark,"  he  complained :  "  I 
could  n't  tell  you  from  Eve.  So  perhaps  you  'd  better 
run  back  to  your  room  now.  .  .  ." 

He  turned  away  deliberately.  Behind  him,  after  a 
pause  of  an  instant,  there  rose  a  sound  of  soft  rustling 
draperies,  a  swift  and  hushed  patter  of  footsteps  on  the 
stairs.  A  moment  or  two  later  a  latch  clicked  very  gently 
in  the  corridor  above. 

Quietly  Matthias  switched  on  a  single  light,  returned 
to  the  door,  unbolted  and  quickly  opened  it. 

He  was  not  disappointed  that  this  manoeuvre  sur- 
prised a  shadow  skulking  in  the  penumbra  of  rose  bushes 
that  bordered  the  steps,  the  shadow  of  a  man  who  drew 
back  swiftly  when  he  recognized  Matthias.  This  last 
stepped  out,  turned  in  the  direction  of  the  fugitive  shadow, 


93 

and  pursuing  at  leisure,  hailed  in  a  quiet  and  natural 
tone :  "  I  say  —  Marbridge !  —  that  you  ?  " 

Immediately  he  came  upon  Marbridge  at  a  standstill 
round  the  corner  of  the  house,  awaiting  him  in  a  curious 
posture  of  antagonism:  his  feet  well  apart,  heavy  body 
inclined  a  trifle  forward,  round  dark  head  low  between 
his  shoulders,  hands  clenched,  upon  his  face  a  cloud  of 
anger. 

Matthias  greeted  him  suavely :  "  I  was  afraid  I  'd  locked 
you  out."  Ignoring  his  attitude  even  as  he  seemed  to 
ignore  the  fact  that  Marbridge  had  changed  from  evening 
dress  to  a  suit  of  dark  flannels,  he  added :  "  Coming  in 
now  ?  It 's  a  bit  late." 

Marbridge  pulled  himself  together.  "  Perhaps  you  're 
right,"  he  assented  surlily.  But  it  was  with  patent  effort 
that  he  mastered  his  resentment  and  accompanied  Matthias 
back  to  the  doors. 

"  A  fine  night,  what  ?  "  Matthias  filled  in  the  awkward 
silence. 

"  Yes,"  agreed  Marbridge  brusquely.  "  Too  fine,"  he 
amended  —  "  too  fine  to  waste  in  bed." 

"  Sleepless,  eh  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

Following  him  in,  Matthias  refastened  the  door.  "  Sev- 
eral of  us  seem  troubled  with  the  same  indisposition,"  he 
observed  coolly,  swinging  to  face  Marbridge.  "  That 's 
why  I  bothered  to  call  you  in,  you  know." 

Marbridge  scowled :  "  Perhaps  I  don't  get  you  .  .  ." 

"  She  has  gone  back  to  bed,"  -Matthias  explained  pleas- 
antly. "  I  did  n't  like  to  think  of  you  waiting  out  there, 
all  alone." 

Marbridge  choked  on  a  retort,  turned  and  began  slowly 
to  mount  the  stairs. 

"  Oh  —  going  ?    Half  a  minute." 

The  man  paused,  and  in  silence  looked  down. 

"  I  just  happened  to  think  perhaps  you  have  n't  a  time- 
table in  your  room,"  said  Matthias  amiably.  "  There  are 


94  JOAN    THURSDAY 

several  early  trains  tomorrow,  you  know.  I  fancy  the 
eight-seven  would  suit  you  as  well  as  any." 

He  got  no  answer  other  than  a  grunt.  Marbridge  re- 
sumed his  deliberate  ascent,  gained  the  upper  floor,  and 
disappeared. 

"  Good  night !  "  Matthias  called  after  him,  softly ;  and 
turned  out  the  light. 


MONDAY  afternoon  found  Mr.  Matthias  back  at  his 
desk  and  in  a  tolerably  unhappy  temper,  tormented  not 
only  by  that  conscience-stricken  sensation  of  secret  guilt 
inseparable  from  a  return  to  neglected  work,  but  also 
by  a  less  reasonable,  in  fact  inexplicable  (to  him)  feeling 
of  discomfort;  as  though  he  were  a  trespasser  upon  the 
premises  rather  than  their  lawful  tenant. 

Never  before  had  he  felt  less  at  home,  never  more  ill 
at  ease  in  the  homely  solitude  of  his  workshop  and 
lodgings. 

As  for  his  work  .  .  .  He  found  page  6  of  that  prom- 
ising young  first  act  in  the  typewriter  carriage,  precisely 
as  it  had  been  left  on  his  receipt  of  Helena's  peremptory 
telegram.  Removing  the  sheet,  he  turned  back  to  the  first 
page,  and  read  what  had  been  written  with  such  high  and 
eager  hope;  and  looked  his  dashed  bewilderment.  Knit- 
ting portentous  brows,  sedulously  he  reconsidered  the 
manuscript  at  length;  then  with  a  groan  put  it  aside, 
ran  fingers  through  his  hair  till  it  rose  rampant,  and  sat 
scowling  darkly  at  the  wall,  groping  blindly  and  vainly 
for  the  lost  ends  of  that  snapped  thread  of  enthusiasm. 

The  first  flush  of  confidence  vanished,  what  he  had 
written  owned  heart-rending  incoherence  in  his  under- 
standing. 

However  (he  assured  himself)  it  would  come  back  to 
him  in  time.  Indeed,  it  was  bound  to.  It  was  n't  the 
first  time  this  sort  of  thing  had  happened  to  him,  nor  yet 
the  second :  he  was  no  raw  novice  to  cry  despair  over  such 
an  every-day  set-back. 

But  what  the  devil  was  the  matter  with  him  ?    All  the 


96  JOAN    THURSDAY 

way  to  Town  he  had  been  full  of  his  theme,  as  keen-set 
for  work  as  a  schoolboy  for  a  holiday,  and  hardly  less  for 
the  well-worn  comforts  of  his  abode.  And,  lo!  here  sat 
he  with  his  head  as  empty  as  his  hands,  and  that  misfit 
feeling  badgering  him  to  exasperation. 

Instinctively  he  consulted  a  pipe  and,  through  its  at- 
mosphere, the  view  from  his  windows:  the  never-failing, 
tried  and  true,  enheartening  monotony  of  that  sun-scorched 
area  of  back-yards,  grim  and  unlovely  in  the  happiest 
weather,  cat-haunted  and  melancholy  in  all  its  phases.  .  .  . 
But  today  he  essayed  vainly  to  distil  from  contemplation 
of  it  any  of  the  rare  glamour  of  yesterday's  zeal  and 
faith.  It  was  all  gone,  all!  and  the  erratic  mind  of  him 
would  persist  in  trailing  off  after  errant  thoughts  of 
Venetia  Tankerville. 

Surpassing  inconsistency  of  the  human  heart!  Three 
hours  ago,  in  her  company,  he  had  been  able  to  control 
and  to  behave  himself,  to  anticipate  with  pleasure  the 
prospect  of  returning  to  his  desk  after  escorting  her  from 
the  Pennsylvania  to  the  Grand  Central  Station  and  put- 
ting her  aboard  the  train  for  Greenwich,  whither  she  was 
bound  for  a  fortnight's  visit.  But  now  —  he  could  think 
of  nothing  but  Venetia:  Venetia's  eyes,  her  scarlet  lips, 
her  exquisite  hands,  her  hair  of  bronze;  her  moods  and 
whims,  her  laughter  and  her  pensiveness,  alike  adorable; 
Venetia  in  evening  dress  on  the  moon-drenched  terrace  of 
Tanglewood;  Venetia  on  the  tennis-courts,  all  in  white, 
glorified  by  sunlight,  an  amazingly  spirited,  victorious 
figure;  Venetia  with  her  hair  blown  across  her  eyes,  at 
the  wheel  of  one  of  Tankerville's  racing  motor-craft; 
Venetia  in  the  gloom  of  the  Grand  Central  Station,  linger- 
ing to  say  good-bye  to  her  betrothed.  .  .  . 

It  required  several  days  for  this  stupid  gentleman  to 
awaken  to  the  fact  that  the  name  of  his  trouble  was 
merely  love;  that  an  acknowledged  lover  is  a  person 
vastly  different  from  a  diffident  and  distant  worshipper; 
that,  in  short,  the  muse  of  the  creative  fancy  is  a  jealous 


JOAN    THURSDAY  97 

mistress,  prone  to  sulk  and  deny  the  light  of  her  counte- 
nance to  a  suitor  who  thinks  to  share  his  addresses  with 
another. 

But  this  illuminating  discovery  did  little  to  allay  his 
discontent:  progress  with  his  work  alone  could  accom- 
plish that;  and  the  work  dragged  dolefully;  he  scored 
only  dismal  failures  in  his  efforts  to  produce  something  to 
satisfy  himse]f.  And  he  had  only  six  months  to  prove  his 
worth.  The  date  of  their  marriage  had  been  fixed  for 
.February;  every  detail  of  their  plans  had  been  worked 
out  under  the  masterful  guidance  of  Helena;  even  the 
steamer  upon  which  they  were  to  sail  for  Egypt  had  been 
selected  and  their  suite  reserved. 

In  short  he  positively  had  to  win  out  within  the  allotted 
period  of  grace,  who  seemed  able  only  to  sit  there,  day 
in  and  out,  beside  his  typewriter,  with  idle  hands,  or, 
with  a  vacant  mind,  to  pace  his  trail  of  torment  from 
door  to  window:  getting  nowhere,  stripped  of  every  ves- 
tige of  his  arduously  acquired  craftsmanship  ...  It  was 
maddening. 

None  the  less,  doggedly,  savagely  determined  to  over- 
come this  sentimental  handicap,  he  worked  long  hours: 
only  to  review  the  outcome  of  his  labours  with  a  sinking 
heart.  For  all  his  knowledge  of  the  stage,  for  all  that 
a  long  career  of  failures  and  half-hearted  successes  had 
taught  him,  the  play  that  slowly  took  shape  under  his 
modelling  lacked  vitality  —  the  living  fire  of  drama. 
Technically  he  could  find  no  disastrous  fault  with  it; 
but  in  his  soul  he  knew  it  to  be  as  passionless  as  a 
proposition  in  Euclid. 

He  was  a  dreamer,  but  not  even  the  stuff  of  dreams 
could  dull  the  clear  perceptions  of  his  critical  intelli- 
gence. .  .  . 

Meantime,  the  superficial  routine  of  work-a-day  life 
went  on  much  as  it  had  ever  since  he  Had  set  up  shop  in 
the  establishment  of  Madame  Duprat.  His  breakfasts 
were  served  him  in  his  rooms;  for  his  other  meals  he 


98  JOAN    THURSDAY 

foraged  in  neighbouring  restaurants.  A  definite  amount 
of  exercise  was  required  to  keep  him  in  working  trim.  In 
short,  he  was  in  and  out  of  the  house  several  times  each 
day.  Inevitably,  then,  he  encountered  fellow  lodgers, 
either  on  the  stoop  or  in  the  hallway;  among  them,  and 
perhaps  more  often  and  less  adventitiously  than  in  other 
instances,  one  wistful  young  woman,  shabbily  dressed,  in 
whose  brown  eyes  lurked  a  hesitant  appeal  for  recogni- 
tion. He  grew  acquainted  with  the  sight  of  her,  but  he 
was  generally  in  haste  and  preoccupied,  looked  over  her 
head  if  not  through  her,  stepped  civilly  out  of  her  way 
and  went  absently  his  own,  and  never  once  dreamed 
of  identifying  her  with  that  dreary  and  damp  creature 
of  the  rain-swept  night  whose  necessity  had  turned  him 
out  of  his  lodgings  for  a  single  night. 

One  day  —  the  second  Thursday  following  his  return 
to  Town  —  he  found  himself  waiting  in  the  lobby  of  the 
Knickerbocker,  a  trifle  early  for  a  luncheon  engagement 
with  Kideout  and  his  producing  manager,  Wilbrow:  a 
meeting  arranged  for  the  purpose  of  discussing  the  forth- 
coming production  of  "  The  Jade  God."  The  day  was 
seasonably  insufferable  with  heat,  but  there  was  here  a 
grateful  drift  of  air  through  open  doors  and  windows. 
Lounging  in  an  arm-chair,  he  lazily  consumed  a  cigarette 
and  reviewed  the  listless  ebb  and  flow  of  guests  with  a 
desultory  interest  which  was  presently,  suddenly,  and 
rudely  quickened. 

Marbridge,  accompanied  by  a  woman,  was  leaving  the 
eastern  dining-room.  They  passed  so  near  to  Matthias 
that  by  stretching  forth  his  foot  he  could  have  touched  the 
woman's  skirt.  But  she  did  not  see  him;  her  face  was 
averted  as  she  looked  up,  faintly  smiling,  to  the  face  of 
her  companion.  Marbridge,  on  his  part,  was  attend- 
ing her  with  that  slightly  exaggerated  attitude  of  solicitude 
and  devotion  which  was  peculiarly  his  with  all  women. 
If  he  saw  Matthias  he  made  no  sign.  His  dark  and  boy- 
ish eyes  ogled  his  companion;  his  tone  was  pitched  low 


JOAN    THURSDAY  99 

to  a  key  of  intimacy ;  he  rolled  a  trifle  in  his  walk,  with 
the  insuppressible  swagger  of  the  amateur  of  gallantry. 

They  passed  on  and  out  of  the  hotel;  and  Matthias 
saw  the  carriage-porter,  at  a  sign  from  Marbridge,  whistle 
in  a  taxicab. 

He  turned  away  in  disgust. 

A  moment  or  so  later  he  looked  up  to  find  Marbridge 
standing  over  him  and  grinning  impudently  as  he  of- 
fered a  hand. 

"  Why,  how  do  you  do,  Matthias,  my  boy  ? " 

His  voice,  by  no  means  subdued,  echoed  through  the 
lobby  and  attracted  curious  glances. 

Matthias,  ignoring  the  hand,  lifted  one  of  his  own  in 
a  gesture  deprecatory. 

"  Softly !  "  he  begged.     "  Somebody  might  hear  you." 

Unabashed,  Marbridge  dropped  into  the  chair  beside 
him.  "  How  's  that  ?  Why  should  n't  they  ?  " 

"  They  might  make  the  mistake  of  inferring  that  I  liked 
you,"  returned  Matthias. 

Marbridge,  on  the  point  of  settling  back,  sat  up  with  a 
start.  A  dull  colour  flushed  his  plump,  dark  cheeks.  For 
an  instant  his  hands  twitched  nervously  and  his  full  lips 
tightened  on  a  retort  which  he  presumably  deemed  inad- 
visable; for  mastering  his  impulse,  he  sank  back  again, 
and  put  a  period  to  the  display  with  a  brief  but  not  un- 
easy chuckle. 

"  You  're  all  there  with  the  acidulated  repartee,"  he 
observed  appreciatively.  "  Some  class  to  your  work,  my 
boy !  "  To  which,  Matthias  making  no  comment,  he  added 
with  at  least  some  effort  toward  an  appearance  of  sincer- 
ity :  "  Sorry  you  feel  that  way  about  me." 

"  Unfortunately,  I  do." 

"  Because  I  would  n't  act  on  your  suggestion  about  that 
time-table,  eh  ? " 

"  Because  of  the  circumstances  which  moved  me  to  drop 
that  hint." 

A   brief   silence   prefaced   Marbridge's   next   remark: 


100  JOAN    THURSDAY 

"  But  damn  it !  I  could  n't.  It  would  've  made  talk  if 
I  'd  pulled  out  when  you  wanted  me  to." 

"  There  would  have  been  no  occasion  for  any  talk  what- 
ever if  you  'd  known  how  to  comport  yourself  as  the 
guest  of  decent  people." 

And  still  Marbridge  husbanded  his  resentment. 

"  Oh  well !  "  he  said,  aggrieved  —  "  women !  " 

Matthias  threw  away  his  cigarette  and  prepared  to  rise. 

"  Hold  on  a  bit,"  Marbridge  checked  him.  "  I  want 
to  ask  a  favour  of  you.  ...  Of  course,  you  're  right ;  I 
am  a  bad  actor,  and  all  that.  I  'm  sorry  I  forgot  myself 
at  Tanglewood  —  word  of  honour,  I  am !  " 

"  Well  ? "  Matthias  suggested  with  an  unmoved  face. 

"  Look  here  .  .  ."  Marbridge  sat  up  eagerly.  "  I 
think  you  're  a  mighty  good  sort  —  " 

"Thanks!" 

"  You  did  n't  blow  about  that  business  down  there  —  " 

"  I  could  n't  very  well  —  could  I  ?  —  with  a  woman 
involved !  " 

"  Oh,  you  did  the  white  thing :  I  'm  not  disputing  that. 
But  what  I  'm  worried  about  now  is  whether  you  're  as 
good  a  sport  as  you  seem." 

"Meaning—?" 

Marbridge  nodded  significantly  toward  the  sidewalk, 
where  he  had  put  his  late  companion  into  the  cab.  "  About 
today :  you  won't  find  it  necessary  to  —  ?  " 

"  By  God !  "  Matthias's  indignation  brimmed  over. 
"  If  you  're  so  solicitous  of  the  woman's  good  name,  why 
the  devil  do  you  allow  her  to  be  seen  in  your  company  ? " 

"  It  is  n't  that,"  Marbridge  persisted,  keeping  himself 
well  in  hand.  "  After  all,  what 's  a  lunch  at  the  Knick  ?  " 

"Well—  ?" 

"  The  trouble  is,  she 's  supposed  to  be  at  Newport. 
Majendie  does  n't  know  —  " 

"  You  just  can't  help  being  a  blackguard,  can  you, 
Marbridge  ?  "  Matthias  enquired  curiously.  "  You  ought 
to  have  bitten  off  your  tongue  before  you  named  a  name 


JOAN    THURSDAY  101 

in  a  public  place  like  this."  He  rose,  meeting  with  steady 
eyes  the  vicious  glare  of  the  other.  "  One  word  more : 
if  I  hear  of  your  accepting  another  invitation  to  Tangle- 
wood,  I  '11  forget  to  be  what  you  call  '  a  good  sport '." 

Marbridge  jumped  up  hotly.  "  Look  here !  "  he  said 
in  accents  that,  though  guarded,  trembled,  "  I  've  been 
mighty  patient  with  your  insolence,  and  I  'm  certainly  not 
going  to  forget  myself  here.  But  if  you  want  to  make  a 
book  on  it,  I  '11  lay  you  any  odds  you  like  that  I  '11  be 
received  at  Tanglewood  within  the  year,  and  you  won't 
say  one  single  damn'  word.  Do  you  make  me  ?  " 

Matthias  looked  him  up  and  down,  smiled  quietly, 
swung  on  his  heel,  and  moved  across  the  lobby  to  greet 
Hideout  and  Wilbrow. 

His  instinctive  inclination  to  dismiss  altogether  from 
his  mind  a  subject  so  distasteful  was  helped  out  by  a 
conference  which  outlasted  luncheon,  involved  dinner  with 
the  two  men  of  the  theatre,  and  was  only  concluded  in 
Matthias's  rooms  shortly  after  midnight. 

Wilbrow,  considering  the  play  from  the  point  of  view 
of  him  upon  whom  devolved  all  responsibility  for  the 
manner  of  its  presentation  (the  scene  painting  alone  ex- 
cepted)  and  gifted  with  that  intuitive  sense  du  theatre 
singular  to  men  of  his  vocation,  who  very  nearly  monopo- 
lize the  intelligence  concerned  with  the  American  stage 
today  —  Wilbrow  had  uncovered  a  slight,  by  no  means 
damning,  flaw  in  the  construction  of  the  third  act,  and 
had  a  remedy  to  suggest.  This,  adopted  without  opposi- 
tion from  the  playwright,  suggested  further  alterations 
which  Matthias  could  not  deny  were  calculated  to 
strengthen  the  piece.  In  consequence,  when  at  length  they 
left  him,  he  found  himself  committed  to  a  virtual  re- 
writing of  the  last  two  acts  entire. 

Groaning  in  resignation,  he  resolved  to  accomplish  the 
revision  in  one  week  of  solid,  uninterrupted  labour,  and 
went  to  bed,  rising  the  next  morning  to  deny  himself  his 
correspondence  and  the  newspapers  and  to  make  arrange- 


102  JOAN    THURSDAY 

ments  with  Madame  Duprat  to  furnish  all  his  meals  until 
his  task  was  finished.  These  matters  settled,  and  his  tele- 
phone temporarily  silenced,  he  began  work  and,  forgetful 
of  the  world,  plodded  faithfully  on  by  day  and  night  until 
late  Thursday  afternoon,  when  he  drew  the  final  page 
from  his  typewriter,  thrust  it  with  its  forerunners  into 
an  envelope  addressed  to  Bideout,  entrusted  this  last  to 
a  messenger,  and  threw  himself  upon  the  couch  to  drop 
off  instantly  into  profound  slumbers  of  exhaustion. 

At  ten  o'clock  that  night  he  was  awakened  and  sat  up, 
dazed  and  blinking  in  a  sudden  glare  of  gas-light. 

Stupidly,  bemused  with  the  slowly  settling  dust  of 
dreams,  he  stared,  incredulous  of  the  company  in  which 
he  found  himself. 

Madame  Duprat,  having  shown  his  callers  in  and  made 
a  light  for  them,  was  discreetly  departing.  George  Tan- 
kerville,  whose  vigorous  methods  had  roused  Matthias, 
stood  over  him,  with  a  look  of  deep  and  sympathetic 
anxiety  clouding  his  round,  commonplace,  friendly  coun- 
tenance. Wearing  a  dinner  jacket  together  with  linen 
motor-cap  and  duster,  oil-stained  gauntlets  on  his  hands, 
with  an  implacable  impatience  betrayed  in  his  very  pose, 
he  cut  a  figure  sufficiently  striking  instantly  to  engage  at- 
tention—  the  unexpectedness  of  his  call  aside.  Further- 
more, he  was  accompanied  by  his  wife :  Helena,  in  a  cos- 
tume as  unconventional  as  her  husband's,  stood  at  a  little 
distance,  regarding  Matthias  with  much  the  same  look  of 
consternation  and  care. 

"  Great  Scott !  "  Matthias  exclaimed,  pulling  his  wits 
together.  "  You  are  a  sudden  pair  of  people !  "  With 
a  shrug  and  a  sour  smile  he  deprecated  his  clothing,  which 
consisted  solely  of  a  shirt,  linen  trousers,  and  a  pair  of 
antiquated  slippers.  "  If  you  'd  only  given  me  some  warn- 
ing, I  'd  Ve  tried  to  dress  up  to  your  elegance,"  he 
went  on. 

"  Damn  your  clothes !  "  Tankerville  exploded.  He 
dropped  a  hand  on  Matthias's  shoulder  and  swung  him 


103 

round  to  the  light.  "  Tell  us  you  're  all  right  —  that 's 
all  we  want  to  know !  " 

"  All  right  ?  "  Matthias  looked  from  one  to  the  other, 
deeply  perplexed.  "  Why,  of  course  I  'm  all  right.  Why 
not?" 

With  a  little  gasp  of  relief,  Helena  dropped  into  a 
chair.  Tankerville  removed  his  hand  and  leaned  against 
the  table,  smiling  foolishly. 

"  That 's  all  right,  then,"  he  said.  "  We  tried  to  get 
you  on  the  telephone  all  afternoon,  failed,  were  afraid 
you  'd  done  something  foolish,  and  took  a  run  in  to  town 
to  make  sure." 

"  What  the  dickens  are  you  driving  at  ?  "  Matthias  de- 
manded. "  I  had  my  telephone  cut  off  the  other  day 
because  I  was  working  and  did  n't  want  to  be  interrupted. 
I  do  that  frequently.  Why  not  ?  What 's  got  into  you 
two,  anyway  ?  Have  you  gone  dotty  ?  " 

"  No,"  Helena  replied  with  a  grim,  pale  smile ; 
"  We  're  sane  enough  —  and  thank  Heaven  you  are !  But 
Venetia  —  " 

"  Venetia !  "  Matthias  cried.    "  What  about  Venetia  ?  " 

Tankerville  avoiding  his  eye,  it  devolved  upon  Helena 
to  respond  to  Matthias's  frantic  and  imperative  look. 

"  Venetia,"  she  said  reluctantly  —  "  Venetia  eloped 
with  Marbridge  day  before  yesterday  —  Tuesday.  She 
came  in  town  in  the  morning  to  do  some  shopping,  met 
him  and  was  married  to  him  at  the  City  Hall.  They 
sailed  on  the  Mauretania  yesterday.  The  papers  did  n't 
get  hold  of  it  —  we  knew  nothing !  —  till  this  afternoon. 
I  was  afraid  she  might  have  written  you  and  you  —  in 
despair  —  " 

Her  voice  broke. 

After  a  little,  Matthias  turned  to  a  heap  of  unopened 
correspondence  on  a  side  table  and  ran  rapidly  through 
it,  examining  only  the  addresses. 

"No,"  he  said  presently,  in  a  level  tone:  "no  —  she 
did  n't  trouble  to  write  me." 


XI 

FOR  several  days  the  girl  had  haunted  the  stairs,  the 
hall,  and  door-step,  alert  to  waylay  Matthias,  before  sud- 
denly she  became  aware  that  it  was  long  since  she  had 
either  caught  a  glimpse  of  him  or  heard  the  syncopated 
murmuring  of  the  typewriter  behind  the  closed  door  to 
his  back-parlour. 

It  required  the  lapse  of  another  day  or  two  before  she 
found  courage  to  question  (with  laboured  indifference) 
the  dilapidated  chambermaid  who  sedulously  neglected  her 
room  for  lack  of  a  tip.  From  this  far  from  garrulous 
source  she  learned  that  Matthias  had  packed  up  and  gone 
out  of  town  very  suddenly,  without  mentioning  where  he 
might  be  addressed  during  his  absence. 

Alone  at  the  window  of  her  tiny  cell,  Joan  stared  down 
at  the  uninspiring  vista  of  back-yards  and  disconsolately 
recapitulated  her  sorry  fortunes. 

She  was  now  close  upon  the  end  of  the  fortnight's  resi- 
dence in  the  hall  bedroom ;  before  long  she  would  have  to 
surrender  another  four  dollars  —  a  week's  rent  in  ad- 
vance. Of  the  twenty-two  dollars  she  had  received  from 
Butch,  eight  remained  in  her  purse.  By  dint  of  adhering 
to  a  diet  largely  vegetarian,  she  had  managed  without 
serious  discomfort  to  keep  within  an  expenditure  of  four 
dollars  per  week  for  food.  And  twice  Maizie  Dean  had 
saved  her  the  cost  of  an  evening  meal  by  inviting  her  to 
dine  out  —  at  the  expense  of  friends  in  "  the  profession." 
But  a  continuance  of  such  favours  was  not  to  be  counted 
upon;  and  the  problem  of  living  a  fourth  week  away 
from  home  was  one  serious  and  importunate  —  always 
assuming  she  should  fail  to  secure  work  before  her  money 


JOAN    THURSDAY  105 

ran  out.  She  had  no  resources  in  any  degree  dependable : 
Butch,  even  if  willing,  would  probably  not  be  able  to  ex- 
tend her  another  loan ;  she  possessed  nothing  worth  pawn- 
ing ;  and  Maizie  Dean  had  taken  prompt  occasion  to  make 
it  clear  that,  while  she  was  willing  to  do  anything  inex- 
pensive for  a  budding  sister  artiste,  her  tolerance  would 
stop  short  of  financial  aid. 

"  Take  it  from  me,  dear,"  she  announced  soon  after 
their  first  meeting:  "there  ain't  no  people  in  the  world 
quicker  to  slip  you  a  live  tip  than  folks  in  the  business; 
but  you  gotta  make  up  your  mind  to  pay  your  own  keep. 
They  work  too  hard  for  their  coin  to  give  up  any  without 
a  howl  you  could  hear  from  here  to  Hollum ;  and  anyway, 
everybody  's  always  broke  in  the  summer.  If  you  don't 
land  somewhere  before  your  cash  runs  low,  you  might 
just 's  well  make  up  your  mind  to  slip  back  into  the  chain- 
gang  behind  the  counter." 

She  had  developed  —  or  changed  —  amazingly  in  the 
brief  period  of  her  public  career.  Joan  experienced  diffi- 
culty in  recognizing  in  her  the  warm-hearted  Irish  girl 
who  had  initiated  her  into  the  duties  of  saleswoman  in  the 
stocking  department.  She  had  hardened  more  than  super- 
ficially; she  was  now  as  artificial  as  her  make-up,  as  the 
hue  of  her  ashen  hair.  The  world  to  her  was  a  desert 
threaded  by  "  circuits,"  life  an  arid  waste  of  "  open  time  " 
punctuated  with  oases  of  "  booking  " ;  and  the  fountain- 
head  of  temporal  power  was  located  in  the  innermost 
sanctum  of  the  United  Booking  Offices. 

Sitting  on  the  edge  of  the  bed,  she  crossed  her  knees 
frankly,  sucked  thoughtfully  at  a  cigarette,  and  waved  an 
explanatory  hand: 

"  Here  's  me  and  Mame,  thinking  we  was  all  fixed  for 
the  nex'  six  weeks,  and  then  somethin'  puts  a  crimp  into 
our  bookin'  and  we  're  out  for  Gawd  knows  how  long  — 
till  next  Fall,  sure.  That 's  unless  we  want  to  take  a  trip 
over  the  meal-ticket  circuit  —  fillin'  in  between  filums,' 
yunno.  And  if  we  do  that  it 's  goin'  to  crab  us  with  the 


106  JOAN    THURSDAY 

Orpheum  people,  sure ;  we  'd  never  get  back  into  the  real 
money  class.  So  we  gotta  hold  onto  what  little  we  got 
until  we  kin  see  more  time  headed  our  way."  .  .  . 

On  the  other  hand,  she  had  been  liberal  with  sage  and 
trustworthy  counsel  as  to  the  best  way  to  go  about  "  break- 
ing into  the  game."  It  was  thanks  to  her  that  Joan  was 
now  able  to  enter  a  theatrical  employment  agency  without 
fear  and  trembling,  and  to  back  her  application  for  chorus 
work  with  a  glib  and  unblushing  statement  that  she  had 
had  experience  "  in  summer  stock  out  on  the  Coast."  And 
to  the  Sisters  Dean,  likewise,  Joan  owed  her  growing  ac- 
quaintance with  the  intricate  geography  of  the  theatrical 
districts  of  New  York,  her  ability  to  discriminate  be- 
tween players  "  resting  "  and  the  average  run  of  Broad- 
way loungers  who  cluttered  the  shady  side  of  that  thorough- 
fare, from  Twenty-fiftE  Street  north  to  Forty-seventh, 
those  shimmering  summer  afternoons,  and  her  slowly 
widening  circle  of  nodding  acquaintances  among  the  lesser 
peoples  of  the  vaudeville  world. 

As  a  rule  she  was  awake  before  anybody  else  in  the 
establishment  of  Madame  Duprat ;  not  yet  could  she  slough 
the  habit  of  early  rising.  Her  breakfast  she  was  accus- 
tomed to  get  at  the  same  dairy  restaurant  which  had  sup- 
plied her  first  meal  away  from  home,  and  at  the  same 
moderate  expense  —  ten  cents.  By  ten  o'clock  she  would 
be  on  Broadway,  beginning  her  round  of  the  agencies :  a 
courageous,  shabby  figure  in  the  withering  sun-blast,  pa- 
tient and  indomitable  through  long  hours  of  waiting  in 
crowded  anterooms,  undiscouraged  by  the  brevity  and 
fruitlessness  of  the  interviews  with  which  her  persistence 
was  sometimes  rewarded,  ignoring  disappointment  with 
the  same  studied  calm  with  which  she  had  long  since 
learned  to  ignore  the  advances  of  loafers  of  the  streets. 

Hler  lunches  she  would  purchase  wherever  she  might 
happen  to  be  at  the  noon  hour  —  or  go  without.  By  five 
o'clock  at  the  latest  —  frequently  much  earlier  —  she 
would  turn  back  to  West  Forty-fifth  Street.  For  dinner 


JOAN    THURSDAY  107 

she  sought  again  the  establishment  that  provided  her  break- 
fast. Her  idle  hours,  both  day  and  evening,  she  grew 
accustomed  to  waste  in  the  double  bedroom  ("  second 
floor  front ")  occupied  by  the  Dancing  Deans. 

At  such  times  the  soi-disant  sisters  were  rarely  without 
company.  They  were  lively  and  agreeable  creatures,  by 
no  means  unattractive,  and  so  thoroughly  theatric  in  every 
effect  of  manner,  speech,  gesture,  person,  and  thought, 
that  the  most  case-hardened  member  of  the  profession 
could  not  but  feel  at  home  in  their  company.  Conse- 
quently, they  were  popular  with  both  sexes  of  their  asso- 
ciates. Seldom  did  a  day  pass  but  they  entertained  sev- 
eral callers,  with  all  of  whom  they  seemed  to  be  on  terms 
of  the  most  candid  intimacy. 

So  Joan  grew  accustomed  to  being  hailed,  whenever  she 
opened  the  door  of  the  sisters'  room,  with  a  formula  that 
varied  little  with  repetition: 

"  Why,  if  it  ain't  the  kid !  Hello,  dearie  —  come  right 
in  and  stop  awhile.  Say,  lis'n :  I  want  you  to  shake  hands 
with  my  friend,  Charlie  Quard.  I  guess  you  know  who 
Charlie  is,  all  right ;  you  must  of  seen  him  of 'n  —  played 
leading  juveniles  with  the  Spangler  Stock,  I  dunno  how 
long.  Charlie,  this  is  my  little  friend,  Miss  Thursday." 

"  In  the  business,  I  trust  ?  " 

"  Goin'  to  be  before  long.     Just  lookin'  round." 

"  Well,  I  wish  you  luck,  Miss  Thursday.  This  is  the 
rottenest  season  /  ever  struck.  There  's  eighty  people  for 
every  job  that  blooms.  Why,  yunno,  Maizie,  I  was  talk- 
ing only  yesterday  to  Percy  Williams,  and  Percy  said  —  " 

At  about  this  point  Joan  would  ordinarily  be  forgotten, 
and  the  gossip  would  rattle  on  through  a  stifling  cloud  of 
cigarette  smoke,  while  she  sat  and  listened  with  grave,  if 
not  always  comprehending,  attention. 

And  in  this  manner  she  met  and  grew  familiar  with  the 
personalities  of  an  astonishing  crew  of  minor  vaudeville 
folk,  jugglers,  dancers,  patter  comedians,  balladists,  coon 
shouters,  performers  on  weird  musical  instruments,  mo- 


108  JOAN    THURSDAY 

nologists,  and  an  unclassified  host  of  others,  including  a 
liberal  sprinkling  of  plain  actors  and  actresses,  the  pen- 
dulums of  whose  life  alternated  between  small  parts  in 
popular-price  stock  companies  and  smaller  parts  in  so- 
called  dramatic  sketches  presented  in  vaudeville  houses. 

To  them  all  (if  they  remembered  her  at  all)  she  was 
Joan  Thursday.  The  translation  from  Thursby  had  been 
almost  inevitable.  Thursday  was  by  far  the  easier  word 
to  remember;  Joan  soon  grew  tired  of  correcting  the 
friends  of  the  Dancing  Deans;  and  accepted  the  change 
the  more  readily  since  it  provided  her  with  a  real  "  stage 
name",  and  so,  in  some  measure,  identified  her  with  the 
business  to  which  her  every  aspiration  was  devoted. 

Of  all  the  population  of  this  new  world,  perhaps  the 
most  prominent  in  her  eyes,  aside  from  the  saltatory  sis- 
ters, was  Mr.  Quard;  or,  to  give  him  the  fullest  benefit 
of  the  printed  cards  which  (detaching  them  dexterously 
from  the  perforated  edges  by  which  they  were  held 
in  an  imitation-leather  cover)'  he  distributed  regardless  of 
expense : 

Mr.  Chas.  Harborough  Quard 
Spangler  Stock  Co.  Variety  Artists  Club 

Brooklyn  New  York 

He  was  a  long,  rangy  animal,  robustious,  romantical; 
with  a  taste  in  the  question  of  personal  decoration  that 
created  compelling  effects.  His  face  was  large,  open, 
boldly  featured,  his  smile  genial,  his  laugh  constant  and 
unctuous.  Something  less  than  thirty,  he  had  been  on 
the  stage  since  childhood;  with  the  training  of  an  actor 
of  the  old  school,  he  combined  immense  vitality,  an  ample, 
dashing  air,  enviable  self-sufficiency,  the  temperament  of 
a  tom-cat. 

Any  competent  stage-director  could  have  made  much  of 
him ;  but  in  an  age  when  managers  cast  their  productions 
with  types  who  "  look  "  their  parts  in  preference  to  players 
who  can  act  them,  he  found  few  chances  to  demonstrate 


JOAN    THURSDAY  109 

his  ability  outside  the  cheaper  stock  organizations;  for 
the  only  character  he  was  physically  fitted  to  portray  was 
that  of  an  actor. 

An  ill-starred  impulse  had  led  him  to  resign  his  latest 
stock  connection  in  order  to  adventure  in  vaudeville  with  a 
one-act  sketch  written  to  his  order  by  a  hack  manufacturer 
of  such  trash.  Its  "  try-out  week  "  in  a  provincial  town 
had  elicited  no  offers  from  other  managers,  and  in  the 
meantime  his  place  in  the  stock  company  had  been  filled. 
At  present  he  had  a  little  money  saved  up,  no  immediate 
prospects  of  an  engagement,  good-humour,  no  illusions 
whatever. 

"  It 's  no  good,"  he  informed  Miss  May  Dean  on  the 
occasion  of  their  first  meeting :  "  I  know  where  I  get  off, 
all  right.  I  can  play  anything  they  slip  me,  but  these 
Broadway  guys  can't  see  my  kind  of  actor.  Give  me  a 
part  I  can  sink  my  teeth  into,  and  I  '11  shake  it  until  the 
house  climbs  on  the  seats  and  howls.  But  that  ain't  what 
they  're  after,  these  days." 

"  The  movies  '11  get  you,  if  you  don't  watch  out,"  May 
suggested  cheerfully. 

"  That 's  right ;  and  I  'd  be  a  knock-out  in  a  film  gang, 
too ;  I  'm  just  their  kind.  That 's  what 's  become  of  all 
the  old  boys  who  still  think  Fourteenth  Street 's  the 
Hi  alto,  yunno.  But  me,  I  'm  too  strong  for  the  noise  an 
audience  makes  when  they  like  you,  or  don't:  I  'd  just  as 
lief  be  hissed  as  get  every  hand  in  the  house.  Don't  be- 
lieve I  could  stand  acting  for  a  one-eyed  box  that  did  n't 
say  anything  but  '  clicJcety-clicJc/  I  'd  rather  travel  with 
the  Uncle  Tommers  —  honest'." 

He  was  publicly  morose  for  a  moment  or  two.  Then 
he  roused :  "  Cheer  up !  The  worst  is  yet  to  come.  Maybe 
I  can  stick  out  till  next  spring,  when  Grady  makes  his 
next  all-star  revival.  Wonder  what  he  '11  exhume  this 
time  ?  If  it 's  only  something  like  '  The  Silver  King,'  or 
*  East  Lynne,'  I  may  yet  cop  out  a  chance  to  play  to  a 
two-dollar  house.  .  .  .  Now,  lis'n :  I  'm  going  down  on 


110  JOAN    THURSDAY 

the  stoop  and  smoke  a  cigarette  while  you  girls  colour 
your  maps  for  artificial  light.  The  eats  are  on  me 
tonight" 

"  Does  that  take  in  my  little  friend  ?  "  demanded  Maizie, 
with  a  nod  toward  Joan. 

Quard  threw  Joan  a  kindly  glance :  "  Sure.  Now, 
get  a  hustle  on." 

"  But  I  can't,"  Joan  protested.  "  I  'm  sorry  —  I  'd  love 
to  —  but  I  've  got  nothing  fit  to  wear." 

"  You  look  pretty  good  to  me  as  you  stand,"  returned 
Quard.  "  Forget  it,  kid,  and  kick  in." 

"  That  'a  right,"  Maizie  insisted.  "  Besides,  I  '11  lend 
you  a  hat  and  a  fresh  fichu ;  you  don't  need  any  coat  to- 
night, it 's  too  rotten  warm." 

"  Anyway,"  Quard  said  over  his  shoulder  as  he  left 
the  room,  "  we  ain't  booked  for  Sherry's." 

In  witness  whereof,  he  introduced  the  girls  to  an  ob- 
scure Italian  boarding-house  in  Twenty-seventh  Street,  the 
proprietress  of  which  admitted  them  only  after  examina- 
tion through  a  grille  in  the  front  door.  Quard  explained 
to  Joan  that  this  precaution  was  necessary  because  the 
house  served  "  red  ink  "  with  the  meals  and  without  benefit 
of  a  liquor  license ;  hence,  only  friends  could  be  admitted. 

They  dined  by  gas-light  in  the  back-yard,  under  an 
awning  which  served  the  double  purpose  of  excluding  ob- 
servation from  the  neighbouring  dwellings  and  compress- 
ing the  heated  air.  Perhaps  two  dozen  tables  crowded  the 
enclosure.  The  male  guests  by  common  consent  removed 
their  coats  and  hung  them  on  nails  in  the  fence.  The 
ladies  emulated  by  discarding  hats  and  all  conventionali- 
ties of  a  nature  to  impede  free  expression  of  their  tem- 
peraments. Maizie  Dean  even  did  without  her  English 
accent. 

The  meal  was  of  a  sort  only  to  be  consumed  with  im- 
punity by  optimists  and  Italians:  a  heavy  soup,  and  all 
one  could  eat  of  it,  spaghetti  without  end,  a  minute  sec- 
tion of  lukewarm  blotting  paper  with  a  remote  flavour  of 


JOAN    THURSDAY  111 

chicken,  a  salad,  cheese  and  coffee,  a  half-bottle  of  atro- 
cious red  wine.  Joan  enjoyed  it  immensely;  it  has  been 
said  that  her  powers  of  digestion  were  exceptional. 

Everybody  seemed  to  know  everybody  else.  Conversa- 
tion was  free  between  tables.  Personalities  were  bandied 
back  and  forth  amid  intense  glee.  Quard,  consuming 
enormous  quantities  of  wine,  proved  himself  a  general 
favourite,  a  leading  spirit.  After  dinner  he  called  for  a 
virulent  green  cordial  (which  Joan  tasted  but  could  not 
drink)  and  later  returned  to  the  wine.  Before  the  end 
of  the  evening  he  became  semi-maudlin,  and  on  leaving 
exploited  a  highly  humorous  inability  to  walk  a  straight 
line.  On  the  corner  of  Broadway  he  halted  suddenly, 
bade  the  three  women  a  slurred  good  night,  and  without 
other  ceremony  swung  himself  aboard  a  Broadway  car. 

His  rudeness  excited  no  comment  from  the  Dancing 
Deans.  They  walked  all  the  way  home  with  Joan,  unes- 
corted. Joan  was  surprised  to  see  by  the  clock  in  the 
Herald  building  that  it  was  almost  eleven.  She  thought 
she  had  never  known  an  evening  to  pass  so  quickly  and 
so  pleasantly.  What  little  wine  she  had  consumed  seemed 
to  have  affected  her  not  at  all,  beyond  rendering  her  keenly 
appreciative  of  this  novel  experience. 

But  she  suffered  the  next  morning  from  a  slight  and, 
to  her,  inexplicable  headache. 

It  was  four  or  five  days  later  before  she  saw  Quard 
again.  He  called  early  in  the  evening  —  but  after  din- 
ner —  and  sat  chatting  amiably  with  the  women  for  up- 
wards of  an  hour  before  the  real  purpose  of  his  visit 
transpired. 

"  I  was  talking  to  Reinhardt  about  an  idea  I  got  for  a 
sketch,  day  before  yesterday,"  he  announced  suddenly. 
"  But  he  wanted  fifty  cash  before  he  'd  touch  it,  and 
seeing  as  it  was  him  slipped  me  that  other  lemon,  I  told 
him  merrily  where  he  could  go  and  went  home  and  wrote 
it  myself." 

"  You  did  n't !  "  Maizie  exclaimed  admiringly. 


112  JOAN    THURSDAY 

"  You  bet  your  life  I  did,"  the  actor  asseverated  with 
conscious  modesty.  "  Why  not  ?  It 's  no  great  stunt, 
writing;  and  besides  it's  all  old  junk  I  've  done  before, 
only  hashed  up  a  new  way.  All  I  had  to  do  was  to  cop 
lines  out  of  shows  I  've  played  in  —  sure-fire  stuff,  yunno 
—  and  write  in  names  of  characters.  That 's  nothing." 

"  Oh,  no,  nothin'  at  all !  "  commented  May  Dean  from 
her  perch  on  the  window-sill.  "  What 's  an  author,  any- 
way ?  Eight  to  five,  girls,  he  's  got  the  'script  on  him. 
Get  ready  to  duck." 

"  Wel-1 !  "  Quard  laughed  —  "  you  beat  me  to  it,  all 
right."  He  produced  a  sheaf  of  folded  papers,  smoothing 
them  out  upon  his  knee.  "  I  just  thought  I  'd  see  what 
you  thought  of  it.  If  it 's  any  good  I  'm  going  to  read 
it  to  Schneider  tomorrow  and  see  what  he  '11  offer  me." 

"  Who  's  Schneider  ?  "  Maizie  asked  blankly. 

"  Agent  for  the  film  circuits,"  Quard  replied. 

"  You  don't  mean  you  're  thinkin'  of  fallin'  for  the 
f our-a-day !  " 

"  I  '11  try  anything  once ;  I  'm  not  too  proud  to  earn 
my  bed  and  board  in  the  dull  season,  anyhow.  Besides, 
this  thing  would  break  into  the  Orpheum  Circuit  only 
over  the  dead  body  of  Martin  Beck.  I  'm  no  Georgie 
Cohan.  But  it  oughta  sandwich  in  between  the  pictures 
without  anybody  asking  his  ten  cents  back." 

"  You  've  got  your  nerve  with  you,"  Maizie  commented 
darkly. 

"  Let  him  rave,"  May  advised,  exhaling  cigarette  smoke 
voluminously.  "  Shoot !  " 

Taking  this  for  consent,  Quard  rattled  the  sheets  of 
paper,  tilted  back  his  chair,  and  began  to  read. 

His  voice  was  flexible  and  sonorous;  instinctively  he 
declaimed  the  lines,  extracting  from  each  its  full  value. 
Now  and  again  he  lent  emphasis  to  a  phrase  with  an 
eloquent  hand.  But  to  Joan  the  composition  was  quite 
incoherent.  She  attended  with  wonder  and  a  feeling 
of  impatience  because  of  her  inability  to  understand 


JOAN    THURSDAY  113 

what  Quard  seemed  to  relish  with  so  much  enthusiasm. 
It  was,  in  fact,  a  worthless  farrago  of  nonsense. 
None  the  less  the  two  dancers  laughed  at  encouraging 
intervals. 

Flattered,  Quard  rose,  removed  his  coat  and  began 
to  act  the  lines,  striding  up  and  down  the  narrow  space 
between  the  foot  of  the  double-bed  and  the  marble  mantel- 
piece. The  night  was  hot ;  a  single  gas-jet  illumined  the 
centre  of  the  room;  Quard  perspired  freely.  For  all 
that,  his  stenographic  acting  gave  the  thing  some  slight 
accent  of  humanity.  It  became  a  trifle,  a  mere  trifle, 
more  intelligible. 

Seated  on  the  window-sill,  en  profile  to  the  room,  her 
slight,  wiry  body  attired  sketchily  in  a  kimono  and  short 
skirt,  May  Dean  swung  her  legs  and  stared  out  into  the 
darkness,  an  ironic  smile  hovering  round  her  thin  lips. 
Maizie  lounged  on  the  bed,  tracing  a  meaningless  pattern 
on  the  counterpane  with  a  thin  and  rouge-stained  fore- 
finger. Joan  occupied  the  only  chair  other  than  that  at 
the  disposal  of  the  actor.  She  was  very  tired,  and  her 
attention  wandered,  even  though  Quard  managed  to  draw 
it  back  now  and  then  by  some  vivid  trick  of  elocution  or 
gesture.  Vaguely  sensitive  to  the  magnetism  of  the  man, 
her  thoughts  were  occupied  more  with  indefinite  specula- 
tions about  his  personality  than  with  the  semi-plagiaristic 
and  wholly  commonplace  concoction  of  cheap  sentiment 
and  tried-and-true  "  gags "  which  he  professed  to  have 
written. 

Physically  he  attracted  her.  Divested  of  his  coat,  his 
chest  swelled  impressively  beneath  a  pink-striped  silk  shirt. 
When  he  lifted  an  arm,  the  clinging  sleeve  moulded  itself 
to  an  admirable  biceps.  As  he  strode  to  and  fro  the 
stuff  of  his  thin  summer  trousers  shaped  itself  to  legs 
that  might  have  proved  enviable  to  Sir  Willoughby  Pat- 
terne  himself.  His  wide-lipped  mouth  disclosed  an  ex- 
cellent outfit  of  large,  white,  strong  teeth.  His  jet-black 
hair  curled  engagingly  at  his  temples  and  over  his  gen- 


114  JOAN    THURSDAY 

erous  pink  ears.  She  liked  his  big,  muscular,  mobile 
hands.  .  .  . 

She  started  suddenly,  to  discover  that  he  had  concluded 
and  was  facing  her  with  an  expectant  expression,  and 
sat  up  and  smiled  faintly,  with  embarrassment,  trying  to 
remember  what  it  had  all  been  about. 

From  the  window,  May  Dean  drawled  languidly :  "  Is 
that  the  finish  ?  " 

Quard  waved  an  arm.  "  Curtain !  "  he  said ;  and  sat 
down. 

"  My  Gawd !  "  observed  May  thoughtfully. 

He  laughed  uncomfortably :    "  As  bad  as  all  that  ?  " 

"  It  'd  make  a  wonderful  chaser,"  Maizie  commented 
without  lifting  her  eyes  from  the  counterpane. 

Quard  turned  desperately  back  to  Joan.  "  What  do  you 
think  of  it,  Miss  Thursday  ?  " 

"  I  think  so  too,"  she  said  with  all  the  animation  she 
could  muster.  The  other  women  laughed  aloud.  She 
flushed  and  added :  "  I  mean,  I  think  it 's  wonderful.  I 
don't  know  what  a  chaser  is." 

"  A  chaser,  dearie,"  Maizie  explained  in  tones  of  acute 
commiseration,  "  is  an  act  put  on  in  the  continuous  houses 
to  chase  out  the  chair-warmers  and  make  room  for  more." 

"  Well,"  said  Quard,  shuffling  the  manuscript,  "  I  don't 
care  if  it  is  a  chaser,  so  long  as  it  stakes  me  to  the  eats 
till  something  else  turns  up." 


XII 

ON  that  day  when  she  discovered  the  disappearance  of 
John  Matthias,  Joan  left  the  house  later  than  had  been 
her  wont,  and  returned  earlier,  after  a  faint-hearted 
and  abortive  attempt  to  interview  the  stage-manager  of 
a  new  musical  production  then  being  assembled  to  re- 
hearse against  an  early  opening  in  the  Autumn. 

The  Deans  were  out.  She  had  no  place  to  go  other  than 
to  her  bare  and  lonely  room,  and  she  felt  uncommonly 
hopeless  and  friendless.  Subconsciously  she  had  been 
holding  in  reserve,  as  a  last  hope,  an  appeal  to  the  gen- 
erosity of  Matthias.  He  was  a  playwright,  an  intimate 
of  managers:  surely  he  would  be  able  to  suggest  some- 
thing, no  matter  how  poorly  paid  or  inconspicuous.  Now, 
with  the  date  of  his  return  indefinite,  she  felt  unjustly 
bereft  of  that  last  resource. 

She  spent  two  weary,  wretched  hours  on  her  bed, 
harassed  by  a  singularly  fresh  and  clear  perception  of 
her  unfitness,  for  the  first  time  made  conscious  that  she 
had  actually  possessed  no  reasonable  excuse  for  her  deter- 
mination to  go  on  the  stage.  Her  qualifications,  which 
hitherto  might  have  been  expressed,  according  to  her  own 
estimate,  by  the  algebraic  X,  now  assumed  a  value  only 
to  be  indicated  by  a  cipher.  She  had  a  good  strong 
voice,  it 's  true,  but  no  ear  whatever  for  music ;  she  did  n't 
"  know  steps "  (Maizie's  term,  denoting  ability  for 
eccentric  dancing)  and  of  the  art  of  acting  she  was  com- 
pletely ignorant.  In  fact,  her  theatrical  ambitions  had 
been  founded  more  upon  need  of  money  than  upon 
any  real  or  fancied  passion  for  the  stage.  Other  girls 
had  done  likewise  and  bettered  themselves:  Joan  knew 
no  reason  why  she  should  fall  short  of  their  enviable 


116  JOAN    THURSDAY 

achievements;  but  she  was  innocent  of  dramatic  feeling 
and  even  of  any  real  yearning  for  applause.  Only  her 
looks,  of  which  she  was  confident,  were  to  be  counted  upon 
to  carry  her  beyond  the  stage  doors. 

She  thought  of  her  home,  of  her  mother,  her  father, 
Edna  and  Butch,  with  a  dull  and  temperate  regret.  Since 
that  first  afternoon  she  had  never  attempted  to  revisit 
them,  and  she  felt  now  no  inclination  toward  returning. 
Still,  her  thoughts  yearned  back  to  the  miserable  flat  as 
to  an  assured  shelter:  there,  at  least,  she  had  been  safe 
from  rude  weather  and  positive  hunger. 

As  things  were  with  her,  another  week  would  find  her 
destitute,  but  there  was  still  the  chance  that  something 
would  turn  up  within  that  week.  She  felt  almost  sure  that 
something  would  turn  up.  In  this  incurable  optimism 
resided  almost  her  sole  endowment  for  the  career  of  an 
actress :  this,  and  a  certain  dogged  temper  which  would  n't 
permit  her  to  acknowledge  defeat  until  every  possible 
expedient  had  been  explored.  .  .  . 

Toward  evening  she  heard  footsteps  on  the  stairs.  To 
her  surprise  they  paused  by  her  door,  upon  which  fell  a 
confident  knock.  Jumping  up  from  her  bed  in  a  flurry, 
she  answered  to  find  Quard  on  the  threshold. 

No  one  had  been  farther  from  her  thoughts.  She 
stared,  agape  and  speechless. 

"  Hello,  Miss  Thursday !  "  said  the  actor  genially. 
"  Can  I  come  in  ?  " 

He  entered,  cast  a  comprehensive  glance  round  the 
poor  little  room,  deposited  his  hat  upon  the  bed  and  him- 
self beside  it.  Leaving  the  door  open,  and  murmuring 
some  inarticulate  response,  Joan  turned  back  to  her  one 
chair. 

"  Hope  I  don't  intrude,"  Quard  rattled  on  cheerfully. 
"  The  girl  told  me  the  Deans  was  out  and  you  in,  so  I 
took  a  chance  and  said  I  'd  come  right  up." 

"I  —  I  'm  sorry  Maizie  is  n't  home,"  stammered  the 
girl. 


JOAN    THURSDAY  117 

"  I  ain't."  Quard's  eyes  looked  her  over  with  open 
admiration.  "  I  did  n't  want  to  see  either  of  'em,  really. 
What  I  wanted  was  a  little  confab  with  you." 

"With  me!" 

"  Surest  thing  you  know.  I  wanta  talk  business.  I 
don't  guess  you  've  landed  anything  yet  ? " 

Joan  shook  her  head  blankly. 

"  Well,  I  got  a  little  proposition  to  make  you.  Yunno 
that  sketch  I  wrote  and  you  liked  so  much  the  other 
night  ?  " 

"Yes  .  .  ." 

"  Well,  I  got  hold  of  Schneider  yesterday,  and  read 
it  to  him,  and  he  says  he  can  get  me  four  or  five  weeks' 
booking  at  least,  if  I  can  put  it  over  at  the  try-out.  How 
does  that  strike  you  ?  " 

"  Why  —  I  'm  glad,"  Joan  faltered,  still  mystified. 
"  It  must  be  fine  to  get  something  to  do." 

"  Well,  I  have  n't  got  it  yet ;  and  of  course,  maybe 
I  won't  get  it.  One  of  the  first  things  you  gotta  learn  in 
this  business  is,  never  spend  your  pay  envelope  till  you 
got  it  in  your  mitt.  And  in  this  case,  a  lot  depends 
on  you." 

"  I  don't  get  you,"  Joan  returned  frankly.  "  What  've 
I  got  to  do  with  it  ?  " 

Quard  smiled  indulgently,  offered  her  a  cigarette, 
which  she  refused,  and  lighted  one  for  himself. 

"  If  I  can't  get  you  to  play  the  woman's  part,"  he 
said,  spurting  twin  jets  of  smoke  through  his  nostrils, 
"  it 's  all  up  —  unless  I  can  hitch  up  with  summonelse 
just  like  you." 

"  You  mean  —  you  want  me  to  —  to  act  —  ?  " 

"  Right,  the  very  first  time  outa  the  box !  Yunno, 
it 's  this  way  with  these  cheap  houses :  they  can't  afford 
to  pay  much  for  a  turn,  even  a  good  one  —  and  this  one 
of  ours  is  going  to  be  about  as  bum  as  any  act  that  ever 
broke  through :  take  that  from  me.  So  it 's  up  to  me 
to  find  somebody  who  '11  work  with  me  for  little  enough 


118  JOAN    THURSDAY 

money  to  leave  something  for  myself,  after  I  Ve  squared 
up  with  the  agent  and  stage-hands,  and  all  that.  You 
make  me  now  ?  " 

"  Yes ;    but  I  have  n't  any  experience  —  " 

"  That 's  just  it :  if  you  had,  I  could  n't  afford  you. 
But  you  gotta  start  sometime,  and  it  won't  do  you  no 
harm  to  get  wise  to  what  little  I  can  teach  you.  Now 
the  most  I  can  count  on  dragging  down  for  this  act  is 
sixty  a  week.  I  want  twenty-five  of  that  for  myself. 
Fifteen  more  will  fix  the  agent  and  the  rest.  That 
leaves  twenty  for  you.  It  ain't  much,  but  it 's  a  long 
sight  better  than  nothing." 

"  But  —  how  do  you  know  I  can  do  it  ?  " 

"  That  '11  be  all  right.  I  know  all  about  acting  — - 
anyway,  I  know  enough  to  show  you  how  to  put  across 
anything  you  '11  have  to  do  in  this  piece.  Now  how 
about  it  ?  " 

"Why,  I'll  be  glad  —  " 

"  Good  enough.  Now  here :  I  Ve  had  this  dope  type- 
written, and  here 's  your  copy.  Let 's  run  through  it 
now,  and  tonight  you  can  start  in  learning.  Tomorrow 
we  '11  have  a  rehearsal,  and  just  as  soon  's  we  got  our 
lines  pat,  we  '11  let  Schneider  have  a  pipe  at  it.  Don't 
worry.  It  ain't  going  to  be  hard." 

Thus  reassured,  but  still  a  trifle  dubious,  Joan  ac- 
cepted a  duplicate  of  the  manuscript,  and  composed  her- 
self to  follow  to  the  best  of  her  ability  Quard's  second 
reading. 

This  time  he  took  less  pains  with  his  enunciation, 
scanned  the  lines  more  rapidly,  and  frequently  interrupted 
himself  in  order  to  explain  a  trick  of  stage-craft  or  to 
detail  with  genuine  gusto  some  bit  of  business  which  he 
counted  upon  to  prove  especially  telling. 

In  consequence  of  this  exposition,  Joan  acquired  a 
much  clearer  understanding  of  the  nature  of  the  sketch. 
It  concerned  two  persons  only:  a  remarkably  successful 
stage  dancer,  to  be  played  by  Joan;  her  convict  hus- 


JOAN    THURSDAY  119 

band,  fresh  from  the  penitentiary,  by  Quard.  Scene: 
the  dressing-room  of  the  dancer.  Time:  just  after  the 
dancer's  "  turn."  Joan,  discovered  "  on  ",  informs  the 
audience  of  her  fortunate  circumstances  through  the 
medium  of  a  brief  soliloquy.  Enter  Quard  (shambling 
gait,  convict  pallor,  etc.)  to  inform  her  that  she  has 
been  living  in  the  lap  of  luxury  during  the  eight  years 
that  he  has  been  serving  time :  "  I  'm  goin'  to  have  my 
share  now!"  Comedy  business:  humorously  brutal 
attitude  toward  wife;  slangy  description  of  prison  life. 
("They'll  simply  eat  that  up!"  —  Quard.}  More 
comedy  business  involving  a  gratuitous  box  of  property 
cigars  and  a  cuspidor.  Suddenly  and  without  shadow  of 
excuse,  husband  accuses  wife  of  infidelity.  Indignant 
denials;  wife  exhibits  portrait  of  child  born  after  com- 
mitment of  husband,  and  of  whose  existence  he  has  here- 
tofore been  ignorant :  "It  was  for  him  I  fought  my 
way  to  the  top  of  the  ladder :  he  has  your  eyes !  "  In- 
continently husband  experiences  change  of  heart;  kisses 
photograph;  snuffles  into  cap  crushed  between  hands; 
slavers  over  wife's  hand;  refuses  her  offer  of  assistance; 
announces  he  will  go  West  to  "  make  a  man  of  my- 
self !  "  before  returning  to  claim  his  wife  and  child. 
And  the  Curtain  falls  upon  him  in  the  act  of  going  out, 
all  broken  up. 

"  Of  course,"  Quard  admitted,  "  it 's  bunk  stuff,  but 
we  can  put  it  across  all  right.  I  'm  going  to  call  it 
The  Convict's  Return  and  bill  it  as  by  Charles  D'Arcy 
and  Company.  You  '11  be  the  company.  I  don't  want 
to  use  my  name,  because  it  ain't  going  to  do  me  any  good 
to  have  it  known  I  've  taken  to  this  graft,  and  if  I  'm 
lucky  no  one  's  going  to  spot  me  through  my  make-up." 

Suddenly  apprised  by  the  failing  light  that  the  hour 
was  growing  late,  he  pocketed  the  manuscript  and  rose. 

"  Come  on  out  and  eat  —  business  dinner.  We  '11  talk 
things  over,  and  I  '11  fetch  you  home  early,  so 's  you 
can  start  getting  up  on  your  lines." 


120  JOAN    THURSDAY 

They  dined  again  at  the  Italian  boarding-house. 
Quard  drank  but  sparingly,  considerably  to  the  relief  of 
Joan.  .  .  . 

She  was  home  by  half -past  eight,  her  head  buzzing  with 
her  efforts  to  remember  all  he  had  told  her,  and  sat  up 
till  three  in  the  morning,  conning  the  inhuman  speeches 
of  her  part  until  she  had  them  by  rote;  no  very  wonder- 
ful accomplishment,  considering  that  the  sketch  was  to 
play  less  than  fifteen  minutes,  and  that  two-thirds  of  its 
lines  were  to  be  delivered  by  Quard. 

But  once  with  head  on  pillow,  it  was  not  her  role 
that  she  remembered,  but  the  man:  his  coarsely  musical 
tones,  his  eloquent  white  hands,  the  overt  admiration  that 
shone  in  his  eyes  whenever  he  forgot  his  sketch  and  re- 
membered momentarily  Joan  the  woman.  She  felt  sure 
he  liked  her.  And  she  liked  him  well.  Of  the  merits 
of  his  enterprise  she  knew  nothing,  but  he  had  succeeded 
in  inspiring  her  with  confidence  that  he  knew  what  he 
was  about. 

She  drifted  off  into  sleep,  comforted  by  the  conviction 
that  she  had  found  a  friend. 

By  the  time  of  her  return  from  breakfast,  the  next 
morning,  Quard  was  waiting  for  her  at  the  lodging- 
house.  He  had  already  arranged  with  Madame  Duprat 
for  the  use  of  the  front  parlour  for  rehearsals,  pending 
its  lease  to  some  fortuitous  tenant ;  and  here  he  proceeded 
to  work  out  the  physical  action  of  the  sketch.  His  grati- 
tude to  Joan  for  knowing  her  part  was  almost  affecting; 
he  himself  was  by  no  means  familiar  with  his  own  and  her 
prompt  response  to  cues  he  read  from  manuscript  facili- 
tated his  task  considerably.  When  they  adjourned  for 
luncheon  he  announced  himself  persuaded  that  they  would 
be  ready  to  "  open  "  within  a  week. 

Within  that  period  Joan  learned  many  things.  She 
was  a  tractable  and  docile  student,  keen-set  to  profit  by 
the  scraps  of  dramatic  chicanery  which  formed  the  major 
part  of  Quard's  stage  intelligence.  He  himself  had  a 


JOAN    THURSDAY  121 

very  fair  memory  and  had  been  drilled  by  more  than  one 
competent  stage-director  whose  instructions  had  stuck  in 
his  mind,  forming  a  valuable  addition  to  his  professional 
equipment.  Joan  soon  learned  to  speak  out  clearly;  to 
infuse  some  little  semblance  of  human  feeling  into  several 
of  her  turgid  lines;  to  suffer  herself  to  be  dragged  by 
one  wrist  round  the  room  on  her  knees,  by  the  romantical 
convict;  to  time  her  actions  by  mental  counting;  to 
"  feed  lines  "  to  her  partner  in  a  rapid  patter  through 
the  passages  of  putative  comedy.  She  learned  also  to 
answer  to  "  dearie  "  as  to  her  given  name,  and  to  submit 
to  being  handled  in  a  way  she  did  not  like  but  which, 
from  all  that  she  could  observe,  was  considered  neither 
familiar  nor  objectionable  as  between  people  of  the  stage. 
And  she  learned,  furthermore,  that  May  Dean's  opinion 
of  the  venture  was  never  to  be  drawn  beyond  a  mildly 
derisive  "  My  Gawd !  "  while  Maizie's  ran  to  the  sense 
that  it  was  all  a  chance  and  Joan  a  little  fool  if  she  did  n't 
grab  it  —  and  anyway  Joan  was  old  enough  to  take  care 
of  herself  with  Charlie  Quard  or  any  man  living! 

And  it  was  Maizie  who  was  responsible  for  insisting 
that  Joan  wheedle  an  advance  of  ten  dollars  from  Quard, 
ostensibly  toward  the  purchase  of  costume  and  make-up. 
But  when  this  had  been  successfully  negotiated,  the  dancers 
advised  Joan  to  save  it  against  an  emergency,  and  between 
them  provided  her  with  an  outfit  composed  of  cast-offs: 
a  black  satin  decollete  bodice,  an  accordion-pleated  short 
skirt  of  the  period  of  1890,  wear-proof  silk  stockings,  a  pair 
of  broken-down  satin  slippers  with  red  heels,  a  japanned 
tin  make-up  box  with  a  broken  lock,  and  a  generous  supply 
of  cheap  grease-paint  and  cold  cream. 

Joan's  debut  occurred  within  the  time-limit  set  by 
Quard  and  before  an  audience  of  two,  not  counting  a 
few  grinning  stage-hands.  The  two  were  the  agent 
Schneider,  and  the  manager  of  a  small  moving-picture 
house  in  the  Twenty-third  Street  shopping  district;  on 
the  half -lighted  stage  of  which  their  "  try-out "  took 


122  JOAN    THURSDAY 

place  at  half -past  ten  of  a  rainy  and  disheartening  morn- 
ing. The  judges  sat  in  the  darkened  auditorium,  staring 
apathetically  and  chewing  large  cigars.  Joan,  though  a 
little  self-conscious,  was  not  at  all  nervous,  and  remem- 
bered her  lines  perfectly;  better  than  this,  she  looked 
very  fetching  indeed  in  her  makeshift  costume.  Quard 
forgot  several  of  his  speeches,  floundered  all  over  the 
stage,  and  in  a  frantic  effort  to  redeem  himself  clowned 
his  part  outrageously.  Nevertheless  they  were  engaged. 

Convinced  of  their  failure,  Joan  had  only  succeeded 
in  removing  her  make-up  and  struggling  into  her  shabby 
street  clothing,  when  Quard  knocked  at  the  door  of  her 
dressing-room.  He  had  played  without  make-up,  and 
consequently  had  been  able  to  catch  the  manager  and 
agent  before  they  could  escape.  Lounging  in  the  door- 
way, he  breathed  a  spirit  of  congratulation  strongly 
tainted  with  fumes  of  whiskey. 

"  We  're  on !  "  he  declared  exultantly.  "  What  'd  I 
tell  you  ?  You  need  n't  have  changed,  because  we  're 
going  to  stick  here,  and  open  today.  One  of  the  turns 
on  this  week's  bill  fell  down  ,at  the  last  minute,  and  so 
we  cop  this  chance  to  fill  in.  We  go  on  after  the  first 
films  —  about  a  quarter  of  one ;  and  then  at  four-thirty, 
seven-thirty,  ten-forty-five.  Now  whadda  yunno  about 
that?" 

Joan  gulped  and  shook  her  head,  her  eyes  a  little 
misty.  For  the  first  time  she  began  to  perceive  that  she 
had  counted  desperately  on  success. 

"  I  think  —  we  're  awful'  lucky !  "  she  said  faintly. 

"  Lucky  nothing !     I  knew  I  could  get  away  with  it  — 
always  providing  I  had  you  to  play  up  to." 

"Me!" 

"  That 's  right.  After  we  'd  fixed  things  up  I  took 
Schneider  down  to  the  corner  and  bought  him  a  drink. 
He  said  —  I  dunno  as  I  ought  to  tell  you  this,  but  any- 
way—  he  said  the  sketch  was  punk  (God  knows  it  is) 
and  never  would  've  gone  if  it  had  n't  been  for  you.  He 


1  What 's  the  matter  with  you,  anyway  ?"  he  demanded,  hotly. 

Page  123 


JOAN    THURSDAY  123 

said  all  the  women  would  go  crazy  about  you  —  you  'd 
got  the  prettiest  shape  he  'd  seen  in  a  month  of  Sundays. 
Yunno  they  get  most  of  their  afternoon  houses  from  the 
women  shoppers  down  here." 

He  paused  and  after  a  moment  added  meditatively: 
"  Of  course,  you  can't  act  for  shucks." 

Joan,  looking  down,  said  nothing.  Quard  dropped 
a  hand  intimately  across  her  shoulder  and  infused  a 
caressing  note  into  his  voice. 

"  I  guess  I  'm  a  bad  little  guesser  —  eh,  dearie  ?  " 

Joan  stood  motionless  for  an  instant.  His  hand  seemed 
as  if  afire,  as  if  burning  through  her  shirtwaist  the 
flesh  of  her  shoulder.  And  she  resented  passionately  the 
intimacy  of  his  tone.  Of  a  sudden  she  shook  his  hand 
off  and  moved  a  pace  or  two  away. 

"  Let  me  alone,"  she  said  sullenly. 

Quard  started  and  jerked  out  a  "  What  ?  " 

"  I  said,  let  me  alone,"  she  repeated  in  the  same  man- 
ner, looking  him  steadily  in  the  face. 

He  coloured  darkly,  mumbled  something  indistinguish- 
able, and  flashed  into  a  short-lived  fit  of  temper. 

"  What 's  the  matter  with  you,  anyway  ?  "  he  demanded 
hotly. 

"  Nothing,"  she  replied  quietly ;  "  only  I  don't  want 
to  be  pawed." 

"  ~No  ? "  he  exclaimed  with  sarcasm.  "  Is  that 
straight  ?  " 

"  Yes,  that 's  straight  —  and  so  'm  I !  " 

Recollecting  himself,  Quard  attempted  to  carry  off  his 
discomfiture  with  a  shrug  and  a  laugh :  "  Oh,  all  right. 
Don't  get  huffy.  I  did  n't  mean  anything." 

"  I  know  you  did  n't,  but  don't  do  it  again." 

He  turned  out  into  the  corridor ;  hesitated.  "  Well 
—  let  it  go  at  that,  can't  you  ?  " 

"  All  right,"  she  said  sulkily :  "  you  let  it  go  at 
that." 

Quard  tramped  off  without  saying  anything  more,  and, 


124  JOAN    THURSDAY 

whatever  his  resentment  and  disappointment,  schooled 
himself  to  control  them,  and  met  her  half-way  to  a 
reconciliation  when  the  approaching  hour  of  their  first 
public  appearance  brought  them  together  in  the  wings. 

And  by  this  time  Joan  had  been  sufficiently  diverted 
by  other  experiences  to  have  regained  her  normal  poise. 
The  dingy,  stuffy,  and  evil-smelling  dressing-room  to 
which  she  had  been  assigned  had  suffered  an  invasion 
of  three  other  women :  two  worn  and  haggard  clog-dancers 
and  a  matronly  ballad-singer  who,  having  donned  an 
excessively  soiled  but  showy  evening  gown,  had  settled 
down  calmly  to  her  knitting:  an  occupation  which  had 
interfered  not  in  the  least  with  her  flow  of  animated  and 
not  unkindly  gossip.  Joan  gathered  that  her  voice  was 
the  main  support  of  a  small  family,  consisting  of  :a 
shiftless  husband  and  three  children,  for  the  younger  of 
whom  the  mother  was  knitting  a  pair  of  small,  pink 
bootees.  These  last  had  immediately  enlisted  the  sym- 
pathetic interest  of  the  clog-dancers,  one  of  whom  boasted 
of  the  precocity  of  her  only  child,  a  boy  of  eight  living 
with  his  grandmother  in  Omaha,  while  the  other  told 
simply  of  the  death  of  two  children,  due  to  neglect  on 
the  part  of  those  to  whom  she  had  been  obliged  to  entrust 
them  while  on  the  road.  .  .  . 

Joan  was  the  first  to  reach  the  entrance  to  the  dingy 
"  kitchen-set "  which  was  to  figure  as  a  star  dressing- 
room  for  the  purposes  of  their  sketch  (and,  for  the  pur- 
poses of  subsequent  offerings,  as  the  drawing-room  of  a 
mansion  on  Fifth  Avenue  and  the  palm  room  of  a  fash- 
ionable hotel).  About  ten  times  the  size  of  any  dressing- 
room  ever  constructed,  it  was  still  atmospherically  cheer- 
less and  depressing.  She  looked  it  over  momentarily 
to  make  sure  that  the  various  simple  properties  were  in 
place,  and  turned  to  find  Quard  approaching.  Beneath 
the  jaunty  assurance  which  even  his  hang-dog  make-up 
could  n't  wholly  disguise,  she  was  able  to  detect  traces 
of  some  uneasiness  and  anxietv. 


JOAN    THURSDAY  125 

It  was  a  fact  that  he  had  grown  a  trifle  afraid  of  her. 

The  discovery  impressed  her  as  so  absurd  that  she 
smiled;  and  instantly  the  man  was  himself  again.  He 
thrust  out  a  hand,  to  which  with  covert  reluctance  she 
entrusted  her  own. 

"  All  right  now  ?  "  he  asked  cheerfully. 

She  nodded:    "All  right." 

"  Good  enough.  Let 's  see  what  kind  of  a  house  we  Ve 
got." 

He  found  a  peep-hole  near  the  proscenium  arch  and 
peered  intently  through  it  for  a  moment  or  two;  then 
beckoned  Joan  to  take  his  place.  But  she  could  make 
but  little  of  what  seemed  a  dark  well  filled  with  flicker- 
ing shadows.  She  turned  away. 

"  Only  a  handful  out  there/'  Quard  assured  her.  "  It 's 
too  early  for  much  of  a  crowd.  No  good  getting  nervous 
about  this  bunch." 

"  I  'm  not,"  she  asserted  quietly. 

And  she  was  n't ;  no  less  to  her  own  surprise  than  to 
Quard's,  she  was  conscious  of  no  trace  of  the  stage- 
fright  she  had  heard  so  much  about.  Indeed  a  singular 
feeling  of  indifference  and  disappointment  oppressed 
her;  it  was  all  so  unlike  what  she  had  looked  forward 
to  as  the  setting  for  her  first  appearance  in  public.  The 
dreary  and  tawdry  atmosphere  behind  the  scenes  of  the 
dilapidated  little  theatre ;  the  weary  and  subdued  accents 
in  which  her  dressing-room  associates  had  discussed  their 
offspring;  the  tinkle-tankle-tinkle-wJiang  of  a  painfully 
automatic  piano  in  the  orchestra-pit;  her  own  shabby 
second-hand  costume;  the  brutal  grotesqueness  of 
Quard's  painted  countenance  at  close  range  —  these  owned 
little  in  common  with  those  anticipations  roused  by  the 
glitter  and  glamour  of  that  fleshy  show  on  the  New  York 
Theatre  roof  garden.  She  felt  cheated;  in  perspective, 
even  the  stocking-counter  seemed  less  uninviting.  .  .  . 

A  muffled  outbreak  of  laughter  and  brief  murmur  of 
applause  filtered  through  the  curtain.  The  piano  stopped 


126  JOAN    THURSDAY 

with  a  crash.  Quard  nodded  and,  touching  her  elbow, 
urged  her  toward  the  entrance. 

"  Film  's  finished.     Ready  and  steady,  old  girl." 

"  I  'm  all  right,"  she  said  sullenly.  "  Don't  you  worry 
about  me." 

She  heard  the  curtain  rise  with  a  rustling  as  of  mighty 
wings  penetrated  by  the  shrill  squeal  of  an  ungreased 
block;  held  back  a  moment;  and  walked  on,  into  a 
dazzling  glare  of  footlights,  conscious  of  no  emotion 
whatever  beyond  desire  to  get  finished  with  her  part  and 
return  to  the  dressing-room.  At  the  designated  spot,  near 
the  centre  of  the  stage,  she  paused,  faced  the  audience 
with  her  trained  smile  and  mouthed  the  opening  lines 
with  precisely  the  proper  intonation.  .  .  . 

The  curtain  fell  at  length  amid  a  few,  scattering  hand- 
claps that  sounded  much  like  faint-hearted  firecrackers 
exploding  at  a  distance.  Joan  rose  from  the  chair  in 
which  she  had  been  seated  in  a  posture  simulating  aban- 
donment to  tears  of  joy,  and  walked  soberly  off  the 
stage  —  barely  anticipating  a  few  stage-hands,  who  rushed 
on  to  make  the  changes  necessary  for  the  next  act. 

Quard  was  waiting  for  her. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  "  it  did  n't  go  so  bad,  did  it?  " 

"  No,"  she  agreed  listlessly. 

"  Anyhow,  they  did  n't  throw  things  at  us." 

"  No."  She  endeavoured  to  smile,  with  indifferent 
success. 

"  I  got  a  lot  more  laughs  with  that  spittoon  business 
than  I  thought  I  would,"  he  continued  thoughtfully  as 
they  turned  back  toward  the  dressing-rooms. 

Joan  made  no  reply,  but  when  she  stopped  at  the  door 
of  her  dressing-room,  Quard  added  tentatively: 

"  Anyway,  it  beats  clerking  in  a  department  store, 
does  n't  it  ?  " 

With  some  hesitation  she  replied :  "  I  don't 
know  ..." 


XIII 

IMMEDIATELY  after  her  second  public  appearance  in 
"  The  Convict's  Return,"  Joan  removed  her  make-up, 
changed  to  street  dress  and  scurried  through  the  rain 
to  a  Child's  restaurant,  not  far  from  the  theatre.  In  her 
excitement  she  had  forgotten  lunch  and  she  was  now 
thoroughly  hungry.  But  she  lingered  purposely  over  the 
meal  and  even  for  some  time  after  she  had  finished,  pre- 
occupied with  self-dissection. 

She  was  —  at  last !  —  an  actress ;  but  she  was  none  the 
less  singularly  discontented.  In  a  very  brief  time  she  had 
travelled  a  great  way  from  the  Joan  Thursby  of  East 
Seventy-sixth  Street;  a  world  of  emotion  and  experience 
already  dissociated  them ;  but  she  seemed  to  have  profited 
little  by  the  journey.  She  felt  sure  that  she  had  started 
the  wrong  way  to  prove  her  ability  to  act.  And  foreseeing 
nothing  better  than  her  present  circumstances,  she  ques- 
tioned gravely  an  inscrutable  future. 

Instinctively  she  felt  uneasy  about  this  intimate,  daily 
relationship  with  Quard.  She  was  n't  afraid  of  him,  but 
she  was  a  little  afraid  of  herself  —  because  she  liked  him. 
Though  still  she  dwelt  in  secret  longing  upon  the  image, 
half  real,  half  fanciful,  of  a  lover  gentle  and  strong  and 
fine  —  such  an  one  as  John  Matthias  might  prove  —  for 
all  that,  Charlie  Quard  had  the  power  to  stir  her  pulses 
with  a  casual  look  of  admiration,  or  with  some  careless 
note  of  tenderness  in  his  accents. 

The  shower  slashed  viciously  at  the  restaurant  windows. 
At  that  hour  there  were  few  other  patrons  in  the  estab- 
lishment, no  lights  to  relieve  the  dismal  greyness  of  the 
afternoon,  and  no  sounds  other  than  an  infrequent  clash 
of  crockery,  the  muffled  shuffling  of  waitresses'  feet,  and 


128  JOAN    THURSDAY 

their  subdued  voices,  the  melancholy  and  incessant  crepi- 
tation of  the  downpour. 

Joan  was  sensible  to  the  approach  of  an  exquisite  de- 
spondency ;  and  in  alarm,  fearing  to  think  too  deeply,  she 
arose,  ran  back  to  the  theatre  and  on  impulse  paid  her  way 
in  through  the  front,  to  watch  the  flickering  phantasma- 
goria of  the  flying  films  and  to  sit  in  judgment  on  the  antics 
of  her  fellows  on  the  variety  bill.  She  was  in  no  hurry 
to  return  to  the  dressing-room,  with  its  smells  of  grease- 
paint, scented  powder,  ordinary  perfumes,  sweat,  stale 
cigarette-smoke,  gin,  and  broken  food.  One  of  the  clog- 
dancers  claimed  a  tubercular  tendency,  for  which  she  as- 
serted gin  to  be  a  sovereign  specific;  but  as  the  day  ran 
on  was  even  forgetting,  at  times,  to  cough  by  way  of  an 
overture  to  recourse  to  the  bottle.  The  other,  viewing  this 
proceeding  with  public  disfavour,  had  opened  up  an  ap- 
parently inexhaustible  and  hopelessly  monotonous  store  of 
reminiscence  of  the  privations  she  had  endured  in  conse- 
quence of  "  Fanny's  weakness."  Joan  gathered  that  the 
two  were  forever  being  dropped  from  one  bill  after  an- 
other because  of  Fanny's  weakness. 

And  of  this  she  had  five  more  days  to  anticipate  and 
to  endure.  .  .  . 

She  crawled  back  to  Forty-fifth  Street  at  half-past 
eleven,  that  night,  so  dog-tired  that  she  had  neither  the 
heart  nor  the  strength  to  call  on  the  Deans  with  her  good 
news;  this  though  there  were  sounds  of  discreet  revelry 
audible  through  the  door  of  the  second-floor  front.  .  .  . 

Somehow  the  week  wore  out  without  misadventure. 
Joan  walked  through  her  part  with  increasing  confidence. 
Quard  left  her  very  much  to  herself  when  they  were  off 
the  stage;  indeed,  he  spent  no  more  time  in  the  theatre 
than  was  absolutely  necessary.  What  he  did  out  of  it 
she  did  not  know,  but  from  the  frequency  with  which  he 
played  his  part  with  an  alcoholic  breath,  she  surmised 
that  he  was  solacing  himself  in  conventional  manner  for 
his  degradation  to  "  the  four-a-day." 


JOAN    THURSDAY  129 

On  the  third  day  the  clog-dancers  were  dispensed  with 
for  the  reason  forecast,  their  place  being  taken  by 
two  female  acrobats  of  a  family  troupe,  who  lolled  about 
for  eleven  hours  at  a  stretch  in  their  grimy  pink  tights 
and  had  little  to  say  either  to  Joan  or  to  the  matronly 
lady  with  the  robust  voice  and  the  knitting.  But  the 
change  was  a  wholesome  one  for  the  dressing-room. 

The  following  week  Charles  D'Arcy  &  Company  played 
at  another  house  of  equal  unpretentiousness,  on  the  East 
Side,  and  the  week  after  that  was  divided  between  two 
other  theatres.  And  on  Wednesday  of  the  fourth  week  — 
they  were  then  in  Harlem  —  what  Joan  had  vaguely  fore- 
seen and  hoped  against,  happened. 

Quard  turned  up  in  the  morning  with  red-rimmed  eyes, 
a  flushed  face  and  a  thick  tongue  blatantly  advertising  a 
night  of  sleepless  drunkenness.  By  sheer  force  of  an  ad- 
mirable physique  and  the  instinct  of  a  trained  actor,  he 
contrived  to  play  the  first  turn  without  mishap,  snatched 
a  little  sleep  in  his  dressing-room,  and  seemed  almost  his 
everyday  self  at  the  next  repetition.  But  after  that  he 
left  the  theatre  to  drug  his  jangling  nerves  with  more 
whiskey ;  and  appeared  at  the  final  repetition  so  stupefied 
that  he  would  not  have  been  permitted  to  go  on  the  stage 
but  for  remissness  on  the  part  of  the  stage-manager.  Be- 
fore he  had  been  five  minutes  on  view  he  was  hooted  off 
and  the  curtain  was  rung  down  amid  an  uproar. 

Once  back  in  her  dressing-room  (where  she  was  alone, 
since  their  act  was  the  last  on  the  bill  and  the  rest  of  the 
performers  had  already  left  the  theatre)  Joan  gave  way 
to  a  semi-hysterical  tempest  of  tears.  It  was  her  first 
experience  at  close  quarters  with  a  man  in  hopeless  in- 
toxication, and  while  Quard's  surrender  was  too  abject  to 
terrify,  she  was  faint  with  disgust  of  him  and  incensed 
beyond  measure  with  him  for  having  subjected  her  to  those 
terrible  five  minutes  before  a  howling  audience.  With 
this,  she  was  poignantly  aware  that  henceforth  their  offer- 
ing was  "  cold  " :  by  morning  Quard's  name  would  be 


130         JOAN    THURSDAY 

upon  the  black-list  and  further  booking  impossible  to 
secure.  She  might  as  well  count  herself  once  more  out 
of  work,  and  now  in  even  less  hopeful  circumstances  than 
when  first  she  had  struck  out  for  herself;  for  then  she 
had  been  buoyed  up  by  the  fatuous  confidence  of  complete 
inexperience,  and  then  she  had  been  comparatively  affluent 
in  the  possession  of  twenty-two  dollars.  Now  she  knew 
how  desperately  hard  was  the  way  she  must  climb,  and 
she  had  less  than  five  dollars.  What  little  she  had  been 
able  to  set  aside  out  of  her  weekly  wage  had  gone  to 
purchase  some  sorely  needed  supplements  to  her  meagre 
wardrobe. 

It  was  some  time  before  she  could  collect  herself  enough 
to  dabble  her  swollen  eyes  with  cold  water,  scrub  off  her 
make-up,  and  change  for  the  street. 

She  stole  away  presently  across  an  empty  and  desolate 
stage  and  through  the  blind,  black  alley  leading  from  the 
stage-door  to  One-hundred-and-twenty-fifth  Street.  She 
felt  somewhat  relieved  and  comforted  by  the  clean  night 
air  and  the  multitude  of  lights  —  the  sense  of  normal  life 
fluent  in  its  accustomed,  orderly  channels.  It  seemed,  in 
her  excited  fancy,  like  escaping  from  the  foul,  choking 
atmosphere  of  a  madhouse.  .  .  . 

The  theatre  was  near  Third  Avenue,  toward  which  Joan 
hurried,  meaning  to  board  a  southbound  car  and  transfer 
to  Forty-second  Street.  But  as  she  neared  the  corner  she 
checked  sharply,  and  (simple  curiosity  proving  stronger 
than  her  impulse  to  fly  across  the  street)  went  more 
slowly  —  only  a  few  yards  behind  a  figure  that  she  knew 
too  well  —  a  swaying  figure  with  weaving  feet 

Vastly  different  from  the  carefully  overdressed,  dandi- 
fied person  he  had  been  at  their  first  meeting,  Quard  stum- 
bled on,  his  hands  deep  in  pockets,  head  low  between  his 
shoulders,  a  straw  hat  jammed  down  over  his  eyes.  Ob- 
viously he  was  without  definite  notion  of  either  his  where- 
abouts or  his  destination.  Passers-by  gave  him  a  wide 
berth. 


JOAN    THURSDAY  131 

He  seemed  so  broken  and  helpless  that  pity  replaced 
horror  and  indignation  in  the  heart  of  the  girl.  After 
all,  he  had  n't  been  unkind  to  her ;  but  for  him  she  would 
long  since  have  gone  to  the  wall ;  and  ever  since  their 
clash  on  the  day  of  the  try-out,  he  had  treated  her  with 
a  studied  respect  which  had  pleased  her,  apprehensive 
though  she  had  remained  of  a  renewal  of  his  advances. 

Suddenly,  and  quite  without  premeditation,  she  darted 
forward  and  plucked  Quard  by  the  sleeve  just  as  he  was 
on  the  point  of  staggering  through  the  swinging  doors  of 
a  corner  saloon.  If  her  impulse  had  been  at  all  articulate, 
she  would  have  said  that  this  was,  in  such  extremity, 
the  least  she  could  do  —  to  try  to  save  him  from  himself. 

"  Charlie !  "  she  cried.  "  No,  Charlie  —  don't  be  a 
fool !  " 

The  man  halted  and,  turning,  reeled  against  the  door- 
post. "  Wasmasr  ?  "  he  asked  thickly.  Then  recognition 
stirred  in  his  bemused  brain.  "  Why,  it 's  lil  Joan 
Thursh'y  .  .  ." 

"  Come  away,"  she  insisted  nervously.  "  Don't  be  a 
fool.  Don't  go  in  there.  Go  home." 

He  moved  his  head  waggishly.  "  Thash  where  'm  goin' 
—  home  —  soon  's  I  brace  up  a  bit." 

"  Come  away !  "  Joan  repeated  sharply,  dragging  at  his 
cuff.  "  Do  you  hear  ?  Come  away.  A  walk  '11  straighten 
you  out  better  'n  anything  else." 

"  Walk,  eh  ?  "  Quard  lifted  his  chin  and  lurched  away 
from  the  door-post.  "  Y'  wanna  take  walk  with  me  ?  All 
right  "  —  indulgently  —  "I  '11  walk  with  you,  lil  one, 
's  far  's  y'  like." 

"  Come,  then!  "  she  persisted.     "  Hurry  —  it 's  late." 

He  yielded  peaceably,  with  a  sodden  chuckle;  but  as 
he  turned  the  lights  of  the  saloon  illumined  his  face 
vividly  for  an  instant,  and  provided  Joan  with  a  fresh 
and  appalling  problem.  The  man  had  forgotten  to  re- 
move his  make-up;  his  mouth  and  jaws  were  plastered 
with  a  coat  of  bluish-grey  paint,  to  suggest  a  week's 


132  JOAN    THURSDAY 

growth  of  beard  when  viewed  across  footlights;  there 
were  wide  blue  rings  round  his  eyes,  and  splashes  of 
some  silvery  mixture  on  his  dark  hair.  His  face  was 
a  burlesque  mask,  so  extravagant  that  it  could  not  well 
escape  observation  in  any  steady  light.  It  was  impossible 
for  Joan  to  be  seen  publicly  with  him  —  in  a  street-car, 
for  instance.  But  now  that  she  had  taken  charge  of 
him,  she  could  n't  gain  her  own  consent  to  abandon  the 
man  to  the  potentially  fatal  whims  of  his  condition.  For 
a  moment  aghast  and  hesitant,  in  another  she  recognized 
how  unavoidable  was  the  necessity  of  adopting  the  sug- 
gestion his  stupefied  wits  had  twisted  out  of  her  pleadings : 
she  would  have  to  walk  with  him  a  little  way,  at  least 
until  he  could  recover  to  some  slight  extent. 

Indeed,  even  had  she  desired  to,  she  would  probably 
have  found  it  difficult  to  get  rid  of  him  just  then ;  for  in 
an  attempt  to  steady  himself,  Quard  grasped  her  arm 
just  above  the  elbow ;  and  this  grip  he  maintained  firmly 
without  Joan's  daring  to  resent  it  openly.  She  was  to 
that  extent  afraid  of  his  drunkenness,  afraid  of  his  un- 
certain temper. 

Submissively,  then,  she  piloted  him  to  the  south  side 
of  the  street,  where  with  fewer  lighted  shop-windows  there 
was  consequently  less  publicity,  and  to  Lexington  Avenue, 
turning  south  and  then  west  through  the  comparative 
obscurity  of  One-hundred-and-twenty-fourth  Street.  Nei- 
ther spoke  until  they  had  traversed  a  considerable  dis- 
tance and  turned  south  again  on  Lenox  Avenue.  The 
streets  were  quiet,  peopled  with  few  wayfarers ;  and  these 
few  hurried  past  them  with  brief,  incurious  glances  if 
not  with  that  blind  indifference  which  is  largely  char- 
acteristic of  the  people  of  New  York.  Quard  suffered 
himself  to  be  led  with  a  docility  as  grateful  as  it  had 
been  unexpected.  It  was  apparent  to  the  girl  that  he 
was  making,  subconsciously  at  least,  a  strong  effort  to 
control  his  erratic  feet.  He  retained  her  arm,  however, 
until  they  were  near  One-hundred-and-sixteenth  Street: 


JOAN    THURSDAY  133 

when,  noticing  the  lights  of  a  corner  drug-store,  the  girl 
held  back. 

A  swift  glance  roundabout  discovered  nobody  near. 

"  Where  's  your  handkerchief,  Charlie  ?  "  she  demanded. 

"  Where  's  whash  ?     Whashmasser  ?  " 

"  I  say,"  she  repeated  impatiently,  "  where  's  your  hand- 
kerchief ?  Get  it  out  and  scrub  some  of  that  paint  off  your 
face.  Do  you  hear  ?  You  look  like  a  fool." 

"  'M  a  fool,"  Quard  admitted  gravely,  fumbling  through 
his  pockets. 

"  Well,  I  won't  be  seen  with  you  looking  like  that. 
Hurry  up !  " 

Her  peremptory  accents  roused  him  a  little.  He  found 
his  handkerchief  and  began  laboriously  and  ineffectually 
to  smear  his  face  with  it,  with  the  sole  result  of  spread- 
ing the  colour  instead  of  removing  it.  In  this  occupation, 
he  released  her  arm.  With  a  testy  exclamation,  Joan 
snatched  the  handkerchief  from  him  and  began  to  scour 
his  cheeks  and  jaws,  heedless  whether  he  liked  it  or  not. 
To  this  treatment  he  resigned  himself  without  protest  — 
with,  in  fact,  almost  ludicrous  complaisance,  lowering  his 
head  and  thrusting  it  forward  as  if  eager  for  the  scrubbing. 

For  all  her  willingness  she  could  accomplish  little  with- 
out cold  cream.  When  at  length  she  gave  it  up,  his  jowls 
were  only  a  few  shades  lighter.  She  shrugged  with  de- 
spair, and  threw  away  the  greasy  handkerchief. 

"It's  no  use,"  she  said.  "It  just  won't  come  off! 
You  '11  have  to  go  as  you  are." 

"Whash  that?    Go  where?" 

"  jSTow  listen,  Charlie,"  she  said  imperatively :  "  see 
that  drug-store  on  the  corner?  You  go  in  there  and  ask 
the  man  to  give  you  something  to  straighten  you 
out." 

Quard  nodded  solemnly,  fixed  the  lighted  show-window 
with  a  steadfast  glare,  and  repeated :  "  So'thin'  to 
straighten  m'  out." 

"  That 's  it.     Go  on,  now.     I  '11  wait  here." 


134  JOAN    THURSDAY 

He  wagged  a  playful  forefinger  at  her.  "  Min'  y'  do," 
he  mumbled,  and  wandered  off. 

"  And  —  Charlie !  — •  get  him  to  let  you  wash  your 
face,"  she  called  after  the  man. 

Waiting  in  the  friendly  shadow  of  a  tree,  she  watched 
him  anxiously  through  the  window;  saw  him  turn  to 
the  soda-fountain  and  make  his  wants  known  to  the  clerk, 
who  with  a  nod  of  comprehension  and  a  smile  of  con- 
tempt began  at  once  to  juggle  bottles  and  a  glass. 

Singularly  enough,  it  never  occurred  to  the  girl  to 
seize  this  chance  to  escape.  She  was  now  accepting  the 
situation  without  question  or  resentment.  Quard  seemed 
to  her  little  better  than  an  overgrown,  irresponsible  child, 
requiring  no  less  care.  Somebody  had  to  serve  him  instead 
of  his  aberrant  wits.  To  leave  him  to  himself  would  be 
sheer  inhumanity.  .  .  .  But  she  reasoned  about  his  case 
far  less  than  she  felt,  and  for  the  most  part  acted  in 
obedience  to  simple  instinct. 

She  saw  him  drain  a  long  draught  of  some  whitish, 
foaming  mixture,  pay  and  reel  out  of  the  store.  He  had, 
of  course,  forgotten  (if  he  had  heard)  her  plea  to  remove 
the  remainder  of  his  make-up.  She  was  angry  with  him 
on  that  account,  as  angry  as  she  might  have  been  with 
a  heedless  youngster.  But  she  did  not  let  this  appear. 
She  moved  quickly  to  his  side. 

"  Come  on,"  she  said  quietly,  turning  southward ; 
"  you  've  got  to  walk  a  lot  more." 

He  checked,  mumbled  inarticulately,  staring  at  her  with 
glazed  eyes,  but  in  the  end  yielded  passively.  In  silence 
they  continued  to  One-hundred-and-tenth  Street,  Joan 
watching  him  furtively  but  narrowly.  The  drug  worked 
more  slowly  than  she  had  hoped.  Primarily,  in  fact,  it 
seemed  only  to  thicken  the  cloud  that  befogged  his  wits. 
But  by  the  time  they  had  gained  the  last-named  street, 
she  noticed  that  he  was  beginning  to  walk  with  some  little 
more  confidence. 

He  now  seemed  quite  ignorant  of  her  company  —  strode 


JOAN    THURSDAY  135 

on  without  a  word  or  glance  aside.  They  crossed  to 
Central  Park  and,  entering,  began  to  thread  a  winding 
path  up  the  wooded  rises  of  its  northwestern  face. 
Momentarily,  now,  there  was  an  increasing  assurance  ap- 
parent in  the  movements  of  the  man.  He  trudged  along 
steadily,  but  with  evident  effort,  like  one  embarrassed 
by  a  heavy  weariness.  His  breathing  was  quick  and 
stertorous. 

The  park  seemed  very  quiet.  Joan  wondered  at  this, 
until  she  remembered  that  it  must  have  been  nearly  mid- 
night when  they  stopped  at  the  drug-store.  She  had 
noticed  idly  that  the  clerk  had  interrupted  preparations 
to  close  in  order  to  wait  on  Quard. 

They  met  nobody  afoot,  not  even  a  policeman;  but 
here  and  there,  upon  benches  protected  by  umbrageous 
foliage,  figures  were  vaguely  discernible ;  men  and  women, 
a  pair  to  a  bench,  sitting  very  near  to  one  another  when 
not  locked  in  bold  embraces.  Joan  heard  their  voices, 
gentle,  murmurous,  fond.  These  sights  and  sounds,  the 
intimations  they  distilled,  would  at  a  previous  time  have 
moved  the  girl  either  to  derision  or  to  envy;  now  she 
felt  only  a  profoundly  sympathetic  compassion,  new  and 
strange  to  her,  quite  inexplicable. 

Near  the  top  of  the  hill  they  found  a  bench  set  in 
the  stark  glare  of  an  arc-light,  and  therefore  unoccupied. 
Upon  this  Quard  threw  himself  as  if  exhausted.  He  said 
nothing,  seemed  wholly  oblivious  of  his  companion.  Im- 
mediately he  was  seated  his  chin  dropped  forward  on  his 
chest,  his  hat  fell  off,  his  arms  and  legs  dangled  inertly. 
He  appeared  to  sink  at  once  into  impregnable  slumber; 
yet  Joan  was  somehow  intuitively  aware  that  he  wasn't 
asleep. 

She  herself  was  very  weary,  but  she  could  n't  leave  him 
now,  at  the  mercy  of  any  prowling  vagabond  of  the  park. 
Picking  up  his  hat,  she  sat  down  beside  him  with  it  in 
her  lap,  glad  of  the  chance  to  rest.  She  was  at  once  and 
incongruously  not  sleepy  and  thoughtless.  Convinced  that 


136  JOAN    THURSDAY 

Quard  was  coming  to  himself,  she  was  no  longer  troubled 
by  solicitude;  her  wits  wandered  in  a  vast  vacuity,  sensi- 
tive only  to  dull  impressions.  She  felt  the  immense  hush 
that  brooded  over  the  park,  a  hush  that  was  rendered 
emphatic  by  the  muffled  but  audible  and  fast  drum- 
ming of  the  man's  over-stimulated  heart,  straining  its 
utmost  to  pump  and  cleanse  away  the  toxic  stuff  in  his 
blood;  the  infrequent  rumble  and  grinding  of  a  surface- 
car  on  Central  Park  West  seemed  a  little  noise  in  com- 
parison. Now  and  again  a  long  thin  line  of  glimmering 
car-windows  would  wind  snakily  round  the  lofty  curve 
of  the  Elevated  structure  at  One-hundred-and-tenth  Street. 
Beyond,  the  great  bulk  of  the  unfinished  cathedral  on 
Morningside  Heights  loomed  black  against  a  broken  sky 
of  clouds. 

At  one  time  a  policeman  passed  them,  strolling  lazily, 
helmet  in  hand  while  he  mopped  his  brow.  His  stare 
was  curious  for  the  two  silent  and  ill-assorted  figures  on 
the  bench.  Joan  returned  it  with  insolent  and  aggressive 
interest,  as  if  to  demand  what  business  it  was  of  his.  He 
grinned  indulgently,  and  passed  on. 

She  had  lost  track  of  time  entirely  when  Quard  stirred, 
sighed,  lifted  his  head  and  sat  up  with  a  gesture  of  deep 
despondency.  The  movement  roused  her  from  a  dull, 
lethargic,  waking  dream. 

"  Feeling  better,  Charlie  ? "  she  asked  with  assumed 
lightness. 

He  nodded  and  groaned,  without  looking  at  her. 

"  Able  to  go  home  yet  ?  " 

"  In  a  minute,"  he  said  drearily. 

"  Where  do  you  live  ?  "  she  persisted. 

He  waved  a  hand  indifferently  westward.  "  Over  there 
—  Ninety-sixth  Street." 

"  Think  you  '11  be  able  to  walk  it  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  'm  all  right  now."  He  groaned  again,  and 
leaned  forward,  elbow  on  knee,  forehead  in  his  hand. 
"  I  feel  like  hell,"  he  muttered. 


JOAN    THURSDAY  137 

"  The  best  thing  for  you  is  to  get  to  bed  and  get  some 
sleep,"  said  the  girl,  stirring  restlessly. 

He  snapped  crossly :  "  Wait  a  minute,  can't  you  ?  " 

She  subsided. 

"  I  guess  you  know  I  've  gummed  this  thing  all  up, 
don't  you  ? "  he  asked  at  length. 

"  Yes,  I  guess  you  have,"  she  replied,  listless. 

"  And,  of  course  "  —  bitterly  — - "  it 's  all  my  fault  .  .  ." 

To  this  she  answered  nothing. 

"  Well,  I  'm  sorry,"  he  pursued  in  a  sullen  voice.  "  I 
guess  I  can't  say  any  more  'n  that." 

She  sighed :  "  I  guess  it  can't  be  helped." 

He  leaned  back  again,  explored  a  pocket,  brought  to 
light  a  roll  of  money,  with  shaking  hands  stripped  off  four 
bills.  "  Well,  anyway,  there  's  your  bit." 

Taking  the  bills,  she  examined  them  carefully.  "  That 's 
a  whole  week,"  she  said,  surprised. 

11  All  right ;    it 's  coming  to  you." 

With  neither  thanks  nor  further  protest,  she  put  the 
money  away  in  her  pocketbook. 

"  You  've  acted  like  a  brick  to  me,"  he  continued. 

"  Don't  let 's  talk  about  that  now  —  " 

"  I  don't  want  you  should  think  I  don't  appreciate  it. 
If  it  had  n't  been  for  you,  I  don't  know  when  I  'd  've  got 
home  —  chances  are,  not  till  tomorrow  night,  anyway. 
The  old  woman  3d  've  been  half  crazy." 

Joan  kept  silence. 

"  My  mother,"  he  amended,  with  a  sidelong  glance. 
"  There  's  only  the  two  of  us." 

"  Well,"  said  the  girl  rising,  "  if  that 's  so,  you  'd  better 
get  home  to  her ;  she  won't  be  any  too  happy  until  she  sees 
you  —  and  not  then." 

Reluctantly  he  got  to  his  feet.  "  She  thinks  I  'm  a 
great  actor,"  he  observed  bitterly ;  "  and  I  'm  nothing 
but  a  damn'  drunken  —  " 

Joan  interrupted  roughly :  "  Ah,  can  that  bunk :  it  '11 
keep  till  tomorrow  —  and  maybe  you  '11  mean  it  then." 


138  JOAN    THURSDAY 

He  subsided  into  silence,  whether  offended  or  penitent 
she  neither  knew  nor  cared.  She  gave  him  his  hat,  avoid- 
ing his  look,  and  without  further  speech  they  found  their 
way  out  to  the  gate  at  One-hundred-and-third  Street.  Here 
Joan  paused  to  await  an  Eighth  Avenue  car. 

"  You  'd  better  walk  all  the  way  home,  even  if  you  don't 
feel  like  it,"  she  advised  Quard  brusquely.  "  It  won't  do 
you  any  harm,  and  that  map  of  yours  is  a  sight." 

"  All  right,"  he  assented.  He  moved  tentatively  a  foot 
or  so  away,  checked,  turned  back.  "  I  suppose  this  is 
good-bye  —  ? "  he  said,  offering  his  hand. 

"  I  guess  it  is,"  she  agreed  without  emotion.  Barely 
touching  his  clammy  and  tremulous  fingers,  she  hastily 
withdrew  her  own. 

A  southbound  car  was  swinging  down  to  them,  not  a 
block  distant.  Quard  eyed  it  with  morose  disfavour. 

"  At  that,"  he  said  suddenly,  "  maybe  this  would  n't  've 
happened  if  you  had  n't  been  so  stand-offish.  I  only 
wanted  to  be  friends  —  " 

In  her  exasperation  Joan  gave  an  excellent  imitation  of 
Miss  May  Dean's  favourite  ejaculation.  "My  Gawd!" 
she  said  scornfully  —  "  if  you  can't  think  of  any  better 
excuse  for  being  a  souse  than  to  blame  it  on  me  .  .  . 
Good  night !  " 

The  car  pulled  up  for  her.  She  climbed  aboard  —  left 
him  staring. 


XIV 

THOUGH  it  was  after  three  in  the  morning  when  Joan 
got  home,  she  was  n't,  as  she  had  thought  to  be,  the  only 
waking  person  in  the  house.  She  had  no  sooner  entered 
than,  fagged  though  she  was,  she  grasped  this  knowledge 
with  a  thrilling  heart. 

Beneath  the  door  of  the  back-parlour  a  thin  yellow  line 
of  light  shone,  as  brilliant  in  the  obscurity  as  the  rim  of 
a  newly  minted  coin.  She  paused ;  and  there  came  to  her 
ears  the  swift  staccato  chattering  of  a  typewriter. 

Of  a  sudden  she  remembered  how  long  it  was  since  John 
Matthias  had  been  anything  but  an  abstraction  in  the 
background  of  her  consciousness.  He  might  have  been  at 
home  for  days:  she  had  neither  known  nor  thought  of 
him,  so  wrapped  up  had  she  been  with  the  routine  of  her 
work  and  the  formless  intrigue  of  emotions  stimulated  by 
the  personality  of  Charlie  Quard. 

But  now  Charlie  had  eliminated  himself  from  her  life 
(she  was  quite  sure  that  she  would  never  see  him  again) 
while  to  the  man  labouring  late,  behind  that  closed  door, 
she  must  be  even  more  a  dim  reminiscence  than  ever 
before. 

It  stung  her  pride  to  think  that  Matthias  had  been  able 
to  forget  her  so  easily.  And  she  regretted  bitterly  that 
she  herself  had  been  so  ready  to  let  the  image  of  her 
absent-minded  benefactor  fade  upon  the  tablets  of  her 
memory. 

By  way  of  mute  apology  and  recompense  she  hastened 
to  enshrine  anew  in  her  heart  her  ideal  of  a  gentleman; 
and  it  was  fashioned  in  the  likeness  of  John  Matthias. 
And  she  resolved  not  to  let  another  day  pass  without  ap- 


140  JOAN    THURSDAY 

preaching  him.  She  was  sure  he  would  help  her  if  he 
could;  and  she  was  very  anxious  to  make  him  realize 
her  again. 

But  morning  found  her  in  quite  another  humour,  one 
as  diffident  as  different.  And  promptly  she  made  a  dis- 
covery so  infinitely  dismaying  that  it  put  the  man  alto- 
gether out  of  her  mind  for  the  time  being.  The  Deans, 
she  learned,  had  on  the  previous  day  received  an  offer 
for  an  engagement  at  a  summer  park  in  the  Middle 
West,  and  had  accepted,  packed  up  and  departed,  all  in 
an  afternoon. 

So  she  was  more  lonely  than  ever  she  had  been  since 
leaving  home.  The  bedroom  of  the  Dancing  Deans,  that 
salon  where  those  stars  of  remote  and  lowly  constellations 
had  assembled  to  afford  Joan  her  only  glimpses  of  social 
life,  was  empty,  swept  and  garnished.  Those  whom  she 
had  met  there,  and  who  had  been  nice  to  her,  those  scatter- 
brained, kind-hearted,  shiftless  denizens  of  the  vaudeville 
half -world,  were  once  again  removed  from  her  reach. 

She  spent  that  day  and  the  next  on  the  streets,  trudging 
purposefully  through  the  withering  heat  of  August,  once 
more  a  figure  of  the  pageant  which  marches  that  most 
dolorous  way,  theatrical  Broadway  in  the  dog-days;  one 
with  the  groups  of  idling  actors  with  their  bluish  jowls  and 
shabby  jauntiness,  one  with  and  yet  aloof  from  that  drift 
of  inexplicable  creatures  of  stunted  bodies  and  shoddy 
finery,  less  women  than  children,  wistful  of  mien,  with 
their  strange,  foreign  faces  and  predatory  eyes,  bold  and 
appealing  to  men,  defiant  to  women.  .  .  . 

Nothing  came  of  it :  the  agencies  took  no  more  interest 
in  her  fortunes  than  they  had  before  she  could  truthfully 
lay  claim  to  stage  experience.  Each  night  she  crawled 
home,  faint  with  fatigue  and  the  burden  of  the  broiling 
day,  to  relish  the  bitter  flavour  of  the  truth  that  she  would 
never  go  far  without  influence. 

The  third  day  she  spent  at  home,  resting  and  furbish- 
ing up  her  wardrobe  to  make  a  good  appearance  in  the 


JOAN    THURSDAY  141 

evening.  Toward  nightfall  she  bathed,  did  up  her  hair 
in  a  new  and  attractive  way,  shrewdly  refrained  from 
dressing  her  face  with  rouge  and  powder  after  the  fashion 
the  Deans  had  taught  her,  and  clothed  herself  simply  and 
sweetly  in  her  best  skirt  and  a  fresh  shirtwaist  —  both  re- 
cent purchases. 

In  the  deepening  gloom  of  evening  she  mounted  guard 
alone  upon  the  stoop. 

Circumstances  could  not  have  proved  more  favourable; 
and  since  her  eyes  were  quick  to  distinguish  the  tall  and 
slender  figure  of  Matthias  the  moment  he  turned  out  of 
Longacre  Square,  the  length  of  the  block  away,  she  had 
ample  time  to  prepare  herself.  And  yet  it  was  with  grow- 
ing consternation  that  she  watched  his  approach,  and  when 
at  last  he  ran  lightly  up  the  steps,  she  was  so  hampered 
by  embarrassment  that  the  words  she  had  framed  to  ad- 
dress him  went  unuttered,  and  her  tentative  movement  to 
rise  was  barely  perceptible  —  a  start,  a  sinking  back.  So 
that  Matthias,  in  his  preoccupation,  received  only  a  faint 
impression  that  he  had  somehow  disturbed  the  girl  (who- 
ever she  might  be)  and  lifting  his  hat,  murmured  an  in- 
articulate word  of  apology  and  brushed  past  her  into  the 
vestibule.  As  the  door  of  the  back-parlour  was  noisily 
closed,  tears  of  anger  and  mortification  started  to  Joan's 
eyes.  Then  promptly  temper  overcame  that  which  had 
daunted  her  calmer  mood.  Before  she  knew  it  she  was 
knocking  at  Matthias's  door. 

He  answered  immediately  and  in  person,  with  his  coat 
off  and  his  collar  unfastened  by  way  of  preparation  for  a 
long  night's  work.  Staring  blankly,  he  said  "  Oh  ?  "  in  a 
mechanical  and  not  at  all  encouraging  manner. 

"  Mr.  Matthias  — "  Joan  began  with  a  slight,  deter- 
mined nod. 

"  Oh  —  good  evening,"  he  stammered. 

Seeing  him  more  at  loss  than  herself,  her  self-confidence 
returned  in  some  measure.  "  You  don't  remember  me, 
Mr.  Matthias,"  she  asserted  with  a  cool  smile. 


142  JOAN    THURSDAY 

He  shook  his  head  slowly :  "  So  sorry  —  I  Ve  got  a 
shocking  memory.  It  '11  come  back  to  me  in  a  minute. 
Won't  you  —  ah  —  come  in  ?  " 

Joan  said  "  Thanks,"  in  a  low  voice,  and  entered.  "  I 
am  Joan  Thursday,"  she  added  with  a  hint  of  challenge 
in  voice  and  glance. 

"  Oh,  yes,  Miss  Thursday  —  of  course !  Won't  you  sit 
down  ? " 

Matthias  offered  her  an  easy  chair,  but  the  girl  was 
quite  aware,  as  she  accepted  it,  that  he  was  still  vainly 
racking  his  memory  for  some  clue  to  the  identity  of 
Joan  Thursday. 

"  You  were  very  kind  to  me  one  night  about  six  weeks 
ago,"  she  said,  choosing  her  words  carefully  in  order  not 
to  offend  his  fastidious  taste.  "  Don't  you  remember  ?  It 
was  a  rainy  night,  and  I  had  nowhere  to  go,  and  you  let 
me  stay  here  —  " 

"  Oh !  "  he  exclaimed,  his  face  lighting  up.  "  Of  course, 
I  remember  now.  Joan  Thursday  —  to  be  sure !  You 
left  me  a  little  note  of  thanks.  I  've  often  wondered  what 
became  of  you." 

"  I  Ve  been  living  here,  right  in  this  house,  ever  since." 

"  You  don't  mean  it.  How  very  odd !  I  should  think 
we  'd  have  met  before  this,  if  that 's  the  case." 

"  You  've  had  plenty  of  chances,"  she  laughed,  feeling 
a  little  more  at  ease.  She  rested  her  head  against  the  back 
of  the  chair  and  regarded  him  through  half -lowered  lashes, 
conscious  that  the  lamplight  was  doing  full  justice  to  her 
prettiness.  "  I  've  seen  you  dozens  of  times." 

"  That 's  funny !  "  he  observed,  genuinely  perplexed. 
"  I  don't  see  how  that  could  have  happened  —  !  " 

"  You  were  always  too  busy  thinking  about  something 
else  to  look  at  poor  me,"  she  returned;  and  then,  intui- 
tively sensitive  to  the  affectation  of  the  adjective  "  poor  " 
(a  trick  picked  up  from  one  of  Maizie's  women  friends) 
she  amended  it  hastily :  "  at  me,  I  mean." 

"  Well,  I  don't  understand  it,  but  I  apologize  for  my 


JOAN    THURSDAY  143 

rudeness,  just  the  same,"  he  laughed ;  and  sat  down,  under- 
standing that  the  girl  wanted  something  and  meant  to  stay 
until  she  got  it,  wondering  what  it  could  be,  and  a  little 
annoyed  to  have  his  working  time  thus  gratuitously  in- 
terrupted. "  So,"  he  ventured,  "  you  fixed  things  up  to 
stop  here,  did  you  ?  At  least,  I  seem  to  remember  you  — 
ah  —  were  n't  in  very  good  form,  financially,  that  night 
we  met." 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  "  I  fixed  it  up  all  right.  I  'd  lost 
my  money,  but  the  next  day  I  found  it  again,  and  I  came 
back  here  because  I  did  n't  know  where  else  to  go,  and 
besides  there  was  my  friends  upstairs  —  the  Deans,  you 
know." 

"  Oh,  yes,  to  be  sure.  And  did  they  help  you  find  work 
on  the  stage  ?  You  did  want  to  go  on  the  stage,  if  I  'm 
not  mistaken." 

"  Yes ;  that 's  why  I  left  home,  you  know.  But  they 
did  n't  help  me  any  —  the  Deans  did  n't  —  at  least,  not 
exactly;  though  it  was  through  them  I  met  a  fellow  who 
took  me  on  for  a  vaudeville  turn." 

"  Why,  that 's  splendid !  "  said  Matthias,  affecting  an 
enthusiasm  which  he  hardly  felt.  "  And  —  you  made 
good  —  eh  ?  " 

"  Well  "  —  she  laughed  a  little  consciously  —  "I  guess 
I  did  make  good.  But  he  did  n't.  H'e  was  a  boozer,  and 
they  threw  us  out  of  the  bill  last  Wednesday." 

"  That 's  too  bad,"  said  Matthias  sympathetically.  "  I 
see." 

And  truly  he  did  begin  to  see :  she  was  out  of  a  job  and 
wanted  assistance  to  another.  It  was  n't  the  first  time  — 
nor  yet  merely  the  hundredth  —  that  he  had  been  ap- 
proached on  a  similar  errand.  People  seemed  to  think 
that  —  simply  because  he  wrote  plays  which,  if  produced 
at  all,  scored  nothing  more  than  indifferent  successes  at 
best!  —  he  could  wheedle  managers  into  providing  berths 
for  every  sorry  incompetent  who  caught  the  footlight  fever. 
It  was  very  annoying.  Not  that  he  would  n't  be  glad  to 


144  JOAN    THURSDAY 

place  them  all,  given  time  and  influence;  but  he  had 
neither. 

Joan,  watching  him  closely,  saw  his  face  darken,  guessed 
cunningly  the  cause.  And  suddenly  the  buoyant  assur- 
ance which  had  been  hers  up  to  this  stage  in  their  inter- 
view deserted  her  utterly.  No  longer  enheartened  by  faith 
in  the  potency  of  her  good  looks  and  the  appeal  of  her 
necessity,  she  became  again  the  constrained  and  timid  girl 
of  unreasonable  and  inarticulate  demands. 

After  a  brief  silence,  Matthias  looked  up  with  a 
smile. 

"  I  don't  suppose  you  have  anything  else  in  sight  ?  " 

Joan  shook  her  head. 

"  And  you  need  a  job  pretty  hard  —  eh  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  do !  "  she  cried.  "  I  have  n't  hardly  any  money, 
and  the  Deans  have  gone  away,  and  the  agencies  won't  pay 
any  attention  to  me  —  " 

"  I  understand,"  he  interrupted.  "  Half  a  minute : 
I  '11  try  to  think  of  something." 

Unconsciously  he  began  to  pace  the  way  his  feet  had 
worn  from  door  to  window. 

"  How  old  are  you  ?  "  he  asked  abruptly. 

She  started  and  instinctively  lied :  "  Twenty  .  .  ." 

His  surprise  was  unconcealed :  "  Really  ?  " 

She  faltered  unconvincing  amendment :   "  Nearly." 

"  No  matter,"  he  said  briskly.  "  It  comes  to  the  same 
thing :  you  're  under  twenty.  The  stage  is  no  place  for 
girls  of  your  age.  Don't  you  think  you  'd  better  chuck  it 
—  go  home  ?  " 

Not  trusting  herself  to  speak,  she  shook  her  head,  her 
eyes  misty  with  disappointment. 

"  Besides,  you  're  too  good  looking  .  .  ." 

Struck  by  her  unresponsiveness,  he  paused  to  glance  at 
her,  and  noted  with  consternation  the  glimmer  of  tears  in 
her  lashes. 

"  Oh,  I  say !  Don't  cry  —  we  '11  find  something  for 
you,  never  fear !  " 


JOAN    THURSDAY  145 

"  I  'm  sorry,"  she  gulped.  "I  —  I  did  n't  mean  to  ... 
Only,  I  can't  go  home,  and  I  must  find  something  to  do, 
and  you  'd  been  so  kind  to  me,  once,  I  thought  —  " 

"  And  I  will !  "  he  asserted  heartily.  "  I  'm  only  trying 
to  advise  you.  ...  I  don't  want  to  preach  about  the  im- 
morality of  the  theatre.  A  sensible  girl  is  as  safe  on  the 
legitimate  stage  as  she  would  be  in  a  business  office  — 
safer !  But  theatrical  work  has  other  effects  on  one's  moral 
fibre,  just  as  disastrous,  in  a  way.  It 's  lazy  work ;  barring 
rehearsals,  you  won't  find  yourself  driven  very  hard  — 
unless  ambition  drives  you,  and  you  've  got  uncommon 
ability  and  mean  to  get  to  the  top.  Otherwise,  you  won't 
have  much  to  do,  even  if  constantly  engaged.  You  '11  get 
average  small  parts ;  you  may  be  on  in  one  act  out  of  three 
or  four.  But  even  if  you  appear  in  every  act,  you  '11  only 
be  in  the  theatre  three  hours  or  so  a  day.  The  rest  of  it 
you  '11  waste,  nine  chances  out  of  ten.  You  '11  lie  abed 
late,  and  once  up  it  won't  seem  worth  while  starting  any- 
thing before  it 's  time  to  show  up  at  the  theatre.  That 's 
the  real  evil  of  stage  life :  to  every  hard-working  actor  it 
turns  out  a  hundred  —  five  hundred  —  too  lazy  even  to 
act  their  best,  of  no  real  use  either  to  themselves  or  to  the 
world." 

He  checked  and  laughed  in  a  deprecatory  manner.  "  I 
did  n't  mean  to  speechify  like  this,  but  I  do  know  what 
I  'm  talking  about." 

Joan  had  listened,  admiring  Matthias  intensely,  but 
thoroughly  sceptical  of  his  counsel,  to  the  tenor  of  which 
she  paid  just  sufficient  heed  to  perceive  that  doubts  ad- 
mitted would  condemn  her  cause. 

"  I  mean  to  succeed,"  she  said  in  an  earnest  voice :  "  I 
mean  to  work  hard,  and  I  do  believe  I  '11  make  good,  if  I 
ever  get  a  chance." 

"  Then  that 's  settled !  "  assented  Matthias  promptly. 
"  The  thing  to  do  now  is  to  find  out  what  you  can  do  with 
a  chance." 

He  pawed  the  litter  of  papers  on  the  table,  and  pres- 


146  JOAN    THURSDAY 

ently  brought  to  light  a  typed  manuscript  in  blue  paper 
covers. 

"  This,"  he  said,  rustling  the  leaves,  "  is  the  first  act 
of  a  play  we  're  going  to  put  on  early  in  September.  It 
goes  into  rehearsal  in  a  week  or  ten  days.  There  's  a  small 
part  in  the  first  act  —  a  stenographer  in  a  law  office  —  a 
slangy,  self -sufficient  girl  —  you  might  be  able  to  play. 
As  I  say,  it 's  small ;  but  it 's  quite  important.  It 's  the 
fashion  nowadays,  you  know,  to  write  pieces  with  small 
casts  and  no  parts  that  are  n't  vital  to  the  action.  If  you 
should  bungle,  it  would  ruin  the  first  act  and  might  kill 
the  play.  But  I  'm  willing  to  try  you  out  at  rehearsals  — 
with  the  distinct  understanding  that  if  you  don't  fit  pre- 
cisely you  '11  be  released  and  somebody  else  engaged  who 
we  're  sure  can  play  it." 

"That's  all  I  ask,"  said  the  girl.  "You  — you're 
awful'  kind  —  " 

"  Nonsense :  I  'd  rather  have  you  than  anyone  else  I 
can  think  of  just  now,  because  you  're  pretty,  and  pretty 
women  help  a  play  a  lot ;  and  the  man  who  's  putting 
this  piece  on  would  rather  have  you  because  he  '11  get  you 
for  less  money  than  he  'd  have  to  pay  an  actress  of  expe- 
rience. So,  if  you  make  good,  all  hands  will  be  pleased." 

"  Shall  I  begin  to  study  now  ?  "  Joan  asked,  offering  to 
take  the  manuscript. 

"  Not  necessary.  Your  part  will  be  given  you  when 
the  first  rehearsal  is  called.  I  merely  want  to  refresh  my 
memory,  to  see  how  much  you  '11  have  to  do." 

He  ran  hastily  through  the  pages. 

"  As  I  thought :  you  are  on  at  the  opening  for  about 
ten  minutes,  and  near  the  end  of  the  act  for  a  two-minute 
scene.  Twelve  minutes'  work  a  day  for,  say,  twenty-five 
dollars  a  week :  that  is  n't  bad.  You  '11  be  out  of  the 
theatre  by  half-past  nine  every  night.  .  .  .  You  see  the 
point  I  've  been  trying  to  make  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  Joan  assented.  "  It  seems  very  easy.  I  hope 
I  can  do  it." 


JOAN    THURSDAY  147 

"  I  'm  sure  you  can,"  said  Matthias.  "  But  —  how  are 
you  going  to  live  between  now  and  the  opening  ?  " 

Joan's  eyes  were  blank. 

"  Have  you  any  money  ?  "  he  insisted. 

"  A  very  little,"  she  faltered  —  "  eighteen  dollars  —  " 

"  You  won't  get  pay  for  rehearsals ;  and  they  '11  last 
three  weeks ;  after  we  open  it  will  be  another  week  before 
the  ghost  walks.  That 's  —  say  —  six  weeks  you  Ve 
got  to  scrape  through  somehow.  Eighteen  dollars  won't 
cover  that.  Perhaps  you  'd  better  go  back  to  your  old  job 
until  we  start." 

"  I  was  fired  from  the  last,  and  it  would  take  more 
than  two  weeks  for  me  to  find  anything  like  it,  I  know." 

"  And  there  you  are !  " 

Matthias  tossed  the  manuscript  back  to  the  table,  waved 
his  hands  eloquently  and  threw  himself  into  a  chair,  re- 
garding her  with  his  whimsical,  semi-apologetic  smile. 

"  I  'm  afraid,"  he  added  after  a  minute,  "  I  Ve  reached 
the  end  of  my  string.  Further  suggestions  will  have  to 
come  from  you." 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  the  girl  doubtfully.  "  Maybe  I 
can  think  of  something  —  maybe  something  will  turn  up." 

"  I  hope  so.  Perhaps  even  I  may  invent  something. 
If  I  do,  I  '11  let  you  know,  Miss  Thursday." 

He  arose,  his  manner  an  invitation  to  go,  to  which  she 
could  n't  be  blind. 

She  got  up,  moved  slowly  toward  the  door. 

"  I  hope  I  have  n't  bothered  you  much  —  put  you  out 
of  your  writing  —  " 

"  Oh,  that 's  all  right,"  he  interrupted  insincerely. 

"  And  you  have  been  awful'  good  to  me." 

"  Please  don't  think  of  it  that  way." 

He  was  holding  the  door  for  her,  but  on  the  threshold 
she  hesitated. 

"  Unless,"  she  ventured  half-heartedly  —  "  unless  I 
could  help  you  some  way  with  your  work." 

"  Help  me  ?  "  he  exclaimed,  at  once  amazed  and  amused. 


148  JOAN    THURSDAY 

"  I  mean,  copying  —  if  you  ever  have  any." 

"  Typewriting  ? " 

She  nodded,  with  a  flush  of  hope.  "  When  I  was  a 
kid  —  I  mean,  before  I  left  school  —  I  studied  a  while 
at  a  business  college  —  nights,  you  know.  They  taught 
me  typewriting  by  the  touch  system,  but  I  could  n't  seem 
to  get  the  hang  of  shorthand,  and  so  had  to  give  it  up  and 
go  to  work  in  a  store." 

"  Now  that  is  a  helpful  thought !  "  he  cried,  turning 
back  into  the  room.  "  Wait  a  minute.  There  may  be 
something  in  this.  Let  me  think." 

But  his  deliberation  was  very  brief. 

"  It  can  be  done !  "  he  announced  in  another  moment. 
"  I  have  got  a  lot  of  stuff  to  be  copied.  You  see,  about 
a  month  ago  I  ..." 

He  checked,  his  eyes  clouding  without  cause  apparent 
to  the  girl. 

"  Well !  "  he  went  on  with  a  nervous  laugh  —  "I  did  n't 
feel  much  like  work.  Guess  I  must  've  done  too  much  of 
it,  for  a  while.  Anyway,  I  found  I  had  to  quit,  and  went 
out  of  town  for  a  while.  Of  course  I  could  n't  stop  work 
really  —  a  man  can't,  if  he  likes  his  job  —  and  so  I  took 
some  manuscripts  along  and  revised  them  in  long-hand. 
Now  they  ought  to  be  copied  —  I  'd  been  thinking  of  send- 
ing them  out  to  some  public  stenographer  —  but  if  you 
want  the  work,  it 's  yours." 


XV 

NEVER  had  any  of  her  difficulties  been  adjusted  in  a 
manner  more  satisfactory  to  Joan.  She  rose  at  once  from 
an  abyss  of  discouragement  to  sunlit  peaks  of  happiness. 
Installing  a  rented  type-writing  machine  in  the  room 
adjoining  her  own  (temporarily  without  a  tenant  and 
willingly  loaned  by  Madame  Duprat)  she  tapped  away 
industriously  from  early  morning  till  late  at  night,  sedu- 
lously transcribing  into  clean  type-script  the  mangled 
manuscripts  given  her  by  Matthias.  By  no  means  a 
rapid  worker,  after  renewing  acquaintance  with  the  ma- 
chine she  made  up  for  slowness  by  diligence  and  long 
hours.  And  the  work  interested  her:  she  thought  the 
plays  magnificent;  and  a  novel  which  Matthias  gave  her 
when  his  stock  of  old  plays  ran  low  she  considered  superb. 
It  was  his  first  and  only  book,  and  had  not  as  yet  been 
submitted  to  the  mercies  of  a  publisher.  But  to  Joan  it 
was  something  more  than  a  book ;  it  was  a  revelation,  her 
primal  introduction  to  the  world  of  the  intellect.  From 
poring  over  its  pages,  she  grew  hungry  for  more,  thrilled 
by  the  discovery  that  she  could  find  interest  and  pleasure 
in  reading. 

She  began  to  borrow  extensively  from  the  circulation 
branch  of  the  Public  Library  in  Forty-second  Street,  and 
to  read  late  into  the  night,  defying  the  prejudices  of 
Madame  Duprat  on  the  question  of  gas  consumption.  .  .  . 

Refusing  an  offer  of  public  stenographer  rates,  she  had 
asked  for  ten  dollars  a  week.  This  Matthias  paid  her, 
under  protest  that  the  work  was  worth  more  to  him.  The 
arrangement  was,  however,  a  fortunate  one;  for  though 
at  first  Joan  earned  more  than  she  received,  after  rehear- 


150  JOAN    THURSDAY 

sals  of  "  The  Jade  God "  had  started  she  was  seldom 
able  to  give  more  than  two  or  three  hours  a  day  to  the 
copying. 

These  rehearsals  furnished  her  with  impressions  vastly 
different  from  those  garnered  through  her  experience 
with  "  The  Convict's  Return." 

The  company  assembled  for  the  first  time  on  a  mid- 
August  morning,  in  the  author's  study.  There  were 
present  eight  men,  aside  from  Matthias  and  the  manager, 
his  producing  director  and  his  press  agent,  and  four 
women,  including  Joan.  After  brief  introductions,  the 
gathering  disposed  itself  to  attention,  and  Matthias,  rock- 
ing nervously  in  his  revolving  desk-chair,  read  the  play 
aloud.  To  most  of  those  present  the  work  was  new  and 
unfamiliar;  they  listened  with  intense  interest,  keenly 
alive  to  the  possibilities  of  the  various  parts  for  which 
they  had  been  cast. 

But  Joan  was  not  of  these;  she  had  typed  all  the 
parts  and  knew  not  only  the  story  but  her  own  slight 
though  significant  role  (as  she  would  have  said)  "back- 
wards." Sitting  in  a  shadowed  corner,  she  devoted  her- 
self to  studying  those  with  whom  her  lines  were  to  be 
cast. 

The  leading  lady  was  an  actress  who,  after  several 
attempts  to  star  at  the  head  of  her  own  company,  was 
reduced  to  playing  second  to  the  young  and  handsome 
matinee  hero  of  several  seasons  ago,  planning  to  return 
in  triumph  to  the  stage  after  an  unsuccessful  effort  to 
retire  from  it  into  the  contented  estate  of  well-financed 
matrimony.  Through  their  widely  published  photographs 
Joan  was  familiar  with  the  features  of  both. 

She  thought  the  star  charming;  good-humoured,  good- 
looking,  well-mannered,  slight  and  graceful,  he  had  all 
the  assurance  of  a  Charlie  Quard  and  none  of  his  vain 
swagger. 

But  Joan  decided  on  sight  to  detest  the  leading  woman. 
She  was  a  pale,  ashen  blonde,  with  a  skin  as  colourless 


JOAN    THURSDAY  151 

as  snow,  level  dark  brows,  sharp  blue  eyes  set  close  to 
the  bridge  of  her  pointed  nose,  and  a  thin-lipped,  violent 
mouth.  The  first  impression  she  conveyed  was  one  of 
dangerous  temper;  the  second,  that  she  had  been  happy 
in  her  choice  of  photographers.  Throughout  the  reading, 
she  sat  negligently  on  the  arm  of  a  chair,  swinging  a 
foot  and  staring  out  of  the  window  with  an  air  of  im- 
mitigable disdain. 

Of  the  other  women,  one  was  a  grey-haired,  sweet-faced 
lady  of  perhaps  fifty  years,  whose  eyes  softened  winningly 
whenever  they  encountered  Joan's,  the  other  an  unlovely 
creature  of  middle-age  and  long  stage  experience,  who 
seemed  to  have  no  interest  in  life  aside  from  her  unfolding 
part.  The  remainder  of  the  company,  of  a  caste  hall- 
marked by  the  theatre,  offered  nothing  novel  to  Joan's 
eyes  —  aside  from  a  fat,  red-faced  lump  of  a  youth  who 
was  to  act  a  thick-witted,  sentimental  office-boy,  in  love 
with  the  stenographer  (Joan).  This  one  she  decided 
to  tolerate  on  suspicion;  he  resembled  a  type  which  she 
had  found  difficult,  apt  to  impertinence  and  annoying 
attentions. 

Hideout,  the  man  financially  responsible  for  the  pro- 
duction, was  an  English  actor  of  reputation  and  con- 
siderable ability.  Carrying  his  stoutish  body  with  an 
ease  that  almost  suggested  slenderness:  with  his  plump, 
blowsy  face,  twinkling  eyes  and  fat  nose  of  a  comedian: 
the  insuppressible  staginess  of  his  gesture  would  have 
betrayed  his  calling  anywhere.  Now  and  again  Joan 
surprised  an  anxious  expression  lurking  beneath  his 
humorous  smile;  she  had  inferred  from  some  casual 
remark  made  by  Matthias  that  Hideout  was  staking  all 
he  possessed  on  the  success  of  this  play. 

The  producing  manager,  Wilbrow,  was  a  short,  lean- 
bodied  American,  with  lantern  jaws,  large  intent  eyes, 
and  a  nervous  frown.  Joan  was  impressed  with  the 
aloof  pleasantness  of  his  manner:  she  was  to  know  him 
better. 


152  JOAN    THURSDAY 

The  reading  over,  the  company  was  dismissed  with  in- 
structions to  report  at  ten  the  next  morning  at  an  obscure 
dance-hall  masquerading  under  the  name  of  an  opera 
house,  situate  in  the  immediate  neighbourhood,  between 
Eighth  and  Ninth  Avenues.  Several  lingered  to  affix  sig- 
natures to  contracts  —  Joan  of  their  number ;  and  when 
these  were  gone,  there  remained  in  conference  the  star, 
the  leading  woman,  Matthias,  Hideout,  and  Wilbrow. 

Going  out  to  dinner  that  night,  Joan  passed  Matthias 
bidding  good-bye  to  the  leading  woman  in  the  hallway. 
He  seemed  tired  and  wore  a  harassed  look;  and  later, 
when  the  girl  delivered  the  outcome  of  her  day's  copy- 
ing, he  had  a  manner  new  to  her,  of  weary  brusqueness. 

The  first  rehearsal  proper  was  held  in  a  stuffy  and  ill- 
ventilated  room,  so  dark  that  it  was  necessary  to  use  the 
electric  lights  even  at  high  noon.  The  day  was  fortunately 
cool,  otherwise  the  place  had  been  insufferable.  There 
was  little  attempt  at  acting;  the  company  devoted  itself, 
under  Wilbrow's  patient  direction,  to  blocking  in  the 
action.  They  had  no  stage  —  simply  that  bare,  four- 
square room.  Half  a  dozen  chairs  and  a  few  long  benches 
were  dragged  about  to  indicate  entrances  and  properties. 
Nobody  pretended  to  know  his  part  —  not  even  Joan,  who 
knew  hers  perfectly.  The  example  of  the  others,  who 
merely  mumbled  from  the  manuscripts  in  their  hands, 
made  the  girl  fear  to  betray  amateurishness  by  discover- 
ing too  great  an  initial  familiarity  with  her  lines.  So 
she,  too,  carried  her  "  'script,"  and  read  from  it.  When 
not  thus  engaged,  she  sat  watching  and  noting  down 
what  was  going  on  with  eager  attention. 

But  she  took  away  with  her  a  depressing  sense  of  having 
engaged  in  something  formless  and  incoherent. 

But  succeeding  rehearsals  —  beginning  with  the  second 
—  corrected  this  misapprehension.  That  afternoon  de- 
veloped Wilbrow  suddenly  into  a  mild-mannered,  semi- 
apologetic,  and  humorous  tyrant.  He  discovered  an  in- 
dividual comprehension  of  what  was  required  for  the 


JOAN    THURSDAY  153 

right  development  of  the  play,  and  an  invincible  deter- 
mination to  get  it.  He  never  lost  either  temper  or 
patience,  neither  swore  nor  lifted  his  voice;  but  having 
indicated  his  desire,  wrought  patiently  with  its  subject, 
sometimes  for  as  long  as  an  hour,  until  he  had  succeeded 
in  satisfying  it.  He  worked  coatless,  with  his  long  black 
hair  straggling  down  over  his  forehead  and  across  his 
glasses :  an  incredibly  thin,  energetic,  and  efficient  figure, 
dominated  by  a  penetrating  and  masterful  intelligence. 
Not  infrequently,  taking  the  typed  part  from  the  hands 
of  one  of  his  puppets,  he  would  himself  give  a  vivid  sketch 
of  its  requirements  through  the  medium  of  intonation, 
gesture,  and  action.  And  to  Joan,  at  least,  the  effects 
he  created  by  these  means  were  as  striking  in  the  feminine 
roles  as  in  the  masculine.  Utterly  devoid  of  self-con- 
sciousness, he  had  the  faculty  of  seeming  for  the  moment 
actually  to  be  what  he  sought  to  suggest:  one  forgot  the 
man,  saw  only  what  he  had  in  mind. 

Another  thing  that  surprised  the  girl  more  than 
a  little  was  the  docility  with  which  her  associates  sub- 
mitted to  his  dictation  and  even  invited  it.  She  had  heard 
of  actors  "  creating  "  roles ;  but  in  this  company  no  one 
but  the  producer  seemed  to  be  creating  anything.  The 
others  came  to  rehearsals  with  minds  so  open  that  they 
seemed  vacuous;  not  one,  whether  the  star,  his  leading 
woman,  or  any  of  their  supporting  players,  indicated  the 
least  comprehension  of  what  they  were  required  to  portray 
or  the  slightest  symptom  of  original  conception.  What 
Wilbrow  told  them  and  then  showed  them  how  to  do,  they 
performed  with  varying  degrees  of  success.  So  that  Joan 
at  last  came  to  believe  the  best  actors  those  most  suscep- 
tible to  domination,  least  capable  of  independent  thought. 
As  he  gradually  became  acquainted  with  his  lines  and  the 
business  Wilbrow  mapped  out  for  him,  the  star  began  to 
give  more  compelling  impersonations  at  each  rehearsal; 
but  to  the  girl  he  never  seemed  more  than  a  carbon  filament 
of  a  man,  burning  bright  with  incandescence  only  when 


154  JOAN    THURSDAY 

impregnated  with  the  fluid  genius  of  a  superior  mentality. 
So,  likewise,  with  the  leading  woman.  .  .  . 

As  for  herself,  Joan  was  hardly  happy  in  her  endeavour 
to  please.  Having  unwisely  formed  her  own  premature 
conception  of  her  part,  and  lacking  totally  the  technical 
ability  to  express  it,  she  ran  constantly  afoul  of  Wil- 
brow's notions.  She  was  called  upon  first  to  erase  her 
own  personality,  next  to  forget  the  personality  which  she 
had  meant  to  delineate,  and  finally  to  substitute  for  both 
these  one  which  Wilbrow  alone  seemed  able  to  see  and 
understand.  She  strove  patiently  and  without  complaint, 
but  in  a  stupefying  welter  of  confusion.  While  on  the 
pretended  stage  she  was  constantly  terrified  by  Wilbrow's 
mild  but  predominant  regard,  which  rendered  her  only 
awkward,  witless,  and  ill-at-ease.  Then,  too,  her  attempts 
to  imitate  his  brilliant  and  colourful  acting  were  received 
with  amusement,  not  always  wholly  silent,  by  the  rest 
of  the  company.  She  seemed  quite  unable  to  follow  his 
lead;  and  toward  the  end  of  the  first  week,  throughout 
the  whole  of  which  (she  was  aware  from  the  calm  resigna- 
tion of  Wilbrow's  attitude)  she  had  improved  not  one 
whit,  she  began  to  despair. 

Inasmuch  as  she  appeared  only  in  the  first  act,  she  was 
customarily  excused  from  attendance  at  the  rest  of  each 
rehearsal,  and  spent  this  extra  time  at  home,  over  her 
typewriter;  thus  maintaining  the  fiction  of  earning  her 
weekly  stipend. 

On  Saturday  afternoon,  however,  as  soon  as  her  "  bit  " 
had  been  rehearsed,  there  occurred  one  of  those  quiet, 
aloof  conferences  between  Wilbrow,  Hideout,  and  Mat- 
thias, which  she  had  learned  to  recognize  as  presaging 
a  change  in  the  cast.  Twice  before,  such  consultations 
had  resulted  in  the  release  of  subordinate  actors  who 
had  proved  unequal  to  their  parts.  Now  from  the  au- 
thor's uneasy  and  distressed  eye,  which  alternately  sought 
and  avoided  her,  Joan  divined  that  her  own  fate  was 
being  weighed  in  the  balance.  And  her  heart  grew  heavy 


JOAN    THURSDAY  155 

with  misgivings.  None  the  less,  she  was  permitted  to 
leave  with  no  other  advice  than  that  the  rehearsals  would 
resume  on  the  following  Monday,  at  nine  in  the  morning, 
on  the  stage  of  a  Broadway  theatre. 

She  hurried  home  in  a  mood  of  wretched  anxiety  and 
creeping  despair.  Wilbrow  had  indisputable  excuse  for 
dissatisfaction  with  her;  Hideout  was  quite  humanly 
bent  on  getting  the  best  material  his  money  could  purchase 
—  and  she  was  far  from  that ;  while  Matthias  could  n't 
reasonably  protest  against  her  dismissal  for  manifest 
incompetency.  And  dismissal  now  meant  more  to  Joan 
than  the  loss  of  her  coveted  chance  to  appear  in  a  first- 
class  production;  it  meant  not  only  the  loss  of  the  living 
she  earned  as  typist  —  and  she  had  been  engaged  with 
the  understanding,  implicit  if  not  explicit,  that  Matthias 
had  only  enough  extra  work  to  occupy  her  until  the  open- 
ing of  his  play ;  dismissal  from  the  cast  of  "  The  Jade 
God,"  in  short,  meant  the  loss  to  her  of  Matthias. 

There  was  no  longer  in  her  heart  any  doubt  that  she 
loved  him.  The  admiration  conceived  in  her  that  first 
night,  when  he  had  turned  himself  out  to  afford  her 
shelter,  had  needed  only  this  brief  period  of  propinquity 
to  ripen  into  something  infinitely  more  deep  and  strong. 
And  from  the  first  she  had  been  ready  and  willing  to 
adore  his  very  shadow  upon  an  excuse  far  less  encouraging 
than  his  kindly  though  detached  interest  in  her  welfare. 
In  her  cosmos  Matthias  was  a  being  as  exotic  as  a  Mar- 
tian, his  intelligence  of  an  order  that  passed  understand- 
ing. His  thoughts  and  ways  of  speech,  his  interests  and 
amusements  (as  far  as  she  could  divine  them)  the  deli- 
cacy of  his  perceptions,  and  the  very  refinements  of  his 
mode  of  life,  all  new  and  strange  to  her,  invested  him 
with  a  mystery  as  compelling  to  her  imagination  as  the 
reticences  of  a  strange  and  beautiful  woman  have  for  the 
mind  of  a  young  man.  She  worshipped  him  with  a 
hopeless  and  inarticulate  longing,  and  was  content  with 
this  for  the  present;  but  hourly  she  dreamed  of  a  day 


156  JOAN    THURSDAY 

when  through  his  aid  she  should  have  lifted  herself  to  a 
position  in  which  she  would  seem  something  more  to  him 
than  a  mere,  forlorn  shop-girl  out  of  work  and  scratching 
for  a  living.  If  only  she  might  hope  to  become  an  actress 
of  recognized  ability  .  .  . ! 

It  was  a  truism  in  her  conception  of  life  that  the  estate 
of  actress  was  a  loadstone  for  the  hearts  of  men. 

If  success  were  to  be  denied  her  .  .  . ! 

In  her  bedroom,  behind  a  locked  door,  she  hurried  to 
her  pillow  and  to  tears.  She  had  known  many  an  hour 
darkened  by  the  fugitive  despairs  of  youth;  but  never 
until  this  day  had  she  been  so  despondently  sorry  for 
herself. 

Later,  the  banal  ticking  of  her  tin  alarm-clock  pene- 
trated her  consciousness,  and  she  remembered  that  she 
had  work  to  do  —  to  be  finished  before  evening,  if  her 
promise  to  Matthias  were  to  be  kept.  She  rose,  splashed 
face  and  eyes  with  cold  water,  and  went  to  her  type- 
writer in  the  adjoining  room. 

She  had  really  very  little  to  do  in  order  to  complete 
her  task  —  only  a  few  pages  of  scored  and  interlined 
manuscript  to  reduce  to  clean  copy;  but  her  mind  was 
not  with  her  work.  Time  and  again  she  found  herself 
sitting  with  idle  hands,  thoughts  far  errant;  and  now 
and  then  she  had  to  dry  her  eyes  before  she  could  pro- 
ceed :  so  stubbornly  did  she  cling  to  the  sorry  indulgence 
of  self-pity!  Once,  even,  she  was  so  overcome  by  con- 
templation of  her  sufferings  that  she  bowed  her  head 
upon  the  table  where  the  manuscript  lay,  and  wept  without 
restraint  for  several  minutes  —  without  restraint  and, 
toward  the  last,  with  kindling  interest  in  the  discovery 
that  her  tears  were  bedewing  a  freshly  typed  page. 

If  Matthias  were  to  notice,  would  he  understand  ?  And, 
understanding,  what  would  he  think  ?  .  .  . 

With  shame-faced  reluctance  she  destroyed  the  blotched 
page  and  typed  it  anew. 

It  was  dark  before  she  finished;    and  she  was  glad  of 


JOAN    THURSDAY  157 

this  when  she  gathered  up  the  manuscript  to  take  to  her 
employer.  With  no  light  in  his  room  other  than  that 
of  the  reading-lamp  with  the  green  shade,  her  stained 
and  flushed  cheeks  and  swollen  eyes  would  escape  de- 
tection. It  was  not  that  she  would  n't  have  welcomed 
sympathetic  interest,  but  a  glance  in  the  mirror  showed 
her  she  had  wept  too  unrestrainedly  not  to  have  depre- 
ciated the  chiefest  asset  of  her  charm  —  her  prettiness. 

However,  she  could  not  well  avoid  the  meeting:  the 
work  must  be  delivered ;  but  if  she  were  lucky  she  would 
find  him  in  one  of  his  frequent  moods  of  abstraction,  and 
their  interview  need  only  be  of  the  briefest.  Never- 
theless, she  would  have  sent  the  work  to  him  by  the 
chambermaid  if  her  week's  wage  had  not  been  due  that 
night. 

She  waited  a  moment,  listening  at  the  door  to  the 
back-parlour;  but  there  was  no  sound  of  voices  within; 
and  reassured,  she  knocked. 

His  response  —  "  Come  in !  "  —  followed  with  unex- 
pected promptness.  She  obeyed,  though  with  misgivings 
amply  justified  as  soon  as  she  found  herself  in  the  room, 
which  was  for  once  well-lighted,  two  gas-jets  on  the 
chandelier  supplementing  the  green-shaded  lamp. 

Matthias  was  bending  over  a  kit-bag  on  the  couch, 
hastily  packing  enough  clothing  to  tide  him  over  Sunday. 
He  threw  her  an  indifferent  glance  and  greeting  over 
his  shoulder. 

"  Hello,  Miss  Thursday !  I  was  beginning  to  wonder 
whether  you  'd  forgotten  me.  I  'm  going  to  run  down 
to  Port  Madison  until  Monday  morning  —  last  chance 
I  '11  have  for  a  day  in  the  country  for  some  time,  prob- 
ably. Chances  are,  Wilbrow  will  keep  us  at  work  next 
Sunday.  Got  that  'script  all  ready  ?  " 

Joan,  depositing  it  on  the  table,  murmured  an  affirma- 
tive in  a  voice  uncontrollably  unsteady.  Before  entering 
she  had  been  quite  sure  of  her  ability  to  carry  off  the 
short  interview  without  betraying  her  harrowed  emotions. 


158  JOAN    THURSDAY 

But  to  find  the  man  about  whom  they  centred  packing  to 
leave  town  —  to  leave  her !  —  added  the  final  touch  of 
misery  to  her  mood.  And  the  inflection  of  her  response 
could  not  have  failed  to  strike  oddly  on  his  hearing. 

Uttering  a  wondering  "Hello!"  he  straightened  up 
and  swung  round  to  look  at  her.  And  a  glance  sufficed: 
his  smile  faded,  was  replaced  by  a  pucker  of  sympathy 
between  his  brows. 

"  Why,  what 's  the  trouble  ?  " 

Joan  averted  her  face.  "  N-nothing,"  she  faltered. 
Her  lip  trembled,  her  eyes  filled  anew.  She  dabbed  at 
them  with  a  wadded  handkerchief. 

Matthias  hesitated.  He  drew  down  the  corners  of  his 
mouth,  elevated  his  brows,  and  scratched  a  temple  slowly 
with  a  meditative  forefinger.  Then  he  nodded  sharply 
and,  crossing  to  the  door,  closed  it. 

"  Tell  me  about  it,"  he  said,  coming  back  to  the  girl. 
"  Things  not  going  to  suit  you,  eh  ?  " 

She  shook  her  head,  looking  away.  "I  —  I  — !  "  she 
stammered  —  "I  can't  act !  " 

"  O  nonsense !  "  he  interrupted  with  kindly  impatience. 
u  You  must  n't  get  discouraged  so  easily.  Naturally  it 
comes  hard  at  first,  but  you  '11  catch  on.  Everything  of 
this  sort  takes  time.  I  was  saying  the  same  thing  to 
Wilbrow  today." 

"  Yes,"  she  mumbled,  gulping  —  "I  —  I  know.  I 
was  watching  you.  H-he  and  Mr.  Hideout  wanted  to 
fire  me,  did  n't  they  ?  " 

"  What  ?  Oh,  no,  no !  "  Matthias  lied  unconvincingly. 
"They  —  they  were  just  wondering  ...  I  assured 
them  —  " 

"  But  you  had  n't  any  right  to !  "  the  girl  broke  in 
passionately.  "  I  can't  act  and  —  and  I  know  it,  and 
you  know  it,  as  well  as  they  do.  I  can't  —  I  just  can't ! 
It 's  no  use  ...  I  'm  no  good  .  .  ." 

Of  a  sudden  she  flopped  into  a  chair,  rested  her  head 
on  arms  folded  on  the  table,  and  sobbed  aloud. 


JOAN    THURSDAY  159 

Matthias  shook  his  head  and  (since  she  could  not  see 
him)  permitted  himself  a  gesture  of  impotent  exaspera- 
tion. This  was  really  the  devil  of  a  note!  Women  were 
incomprehensible :  you  could  n't  bank  on  'em,  ever.  Here 
was  he  preparing  to  catch  a  train,  and  not  too  much  time 
at  that  .  .  . 

But  a  glance  at  the  clock  reassured  him  slightly;  he 
had  still  a  little  leeway.  All  the  same,  he  did  n't  much 
relish  the  prospect  of  being  compelled  to  invest  his  spare 
minutes  in  attempting  to  comfort  a  silly,  emotional  girl. 
And,  besides,  somebody  in  the  hallway  might  hear  her 
sobbing.  .  .  . 

This  last  consideration  took  him  somewhat  reluctantly 
to  her  side.  "  There,  there !  "  he  pleaded,  intensely  irri- 
tated by  that  feeling  of  helplessness  which  always  afflicts 
man  in  the  presence  of  a  weeping  woman,  whether  or 
not  he  has  the  right  to  comfort  her.  "  There  —  don't  cry, 
please,  Miss  —  ah  —  Thursday.  You  're  all  right  — 
really,  you  are.  You  —  you  're  —  ah  —  doing  all  this 
quite  needlessly,  I  give  you  my  word." 

He  might  as  well  have  attempted  to  stem  a  mountain 
torrent. 

"  I  wish  I  could  make  you  understand  this  is  all  quite 
unnecessary,"  he  groaned. 

"I  —  I  'm  so  mis' able !  "  came  a  wail  from  the  huddled 
figure. 

"  I  'm  sorry,"  he  said  uncomfortably  —  "  awfully  sorry, 
truly.  But  you  —  I  'm  not  afraid  you  won't  make  good, 
and  I  don't  intend  to  let  you  go  until  you  've  had  every 
chance  in  the  world.  That 's  a  promise." 

He  ventured  to  give  her  quaking  shoulder  a  light, 
encouraging  pat  or  two,  and  rested  his  hand  upon  the 
corner  of  the  table. 

"  Come,  now  —  brace  up  —  please.     I  —  " 

With  a  strangled  sob  Joan  sat  up,  caught  his  hand  and 
carried  it  to  her  lips.  Before  he  could  recover  from  his 
astonishment  it  was  damp  with  her  tears  and  kisses. 


160  JOAN    THURSDAY 

Instantly  he  snatched  it  away. 

"  You  —  you  're  so  good  to  me !  "  she  cried. 

Matthias,  horrified,  stepped  back  a  pace  or  two,  as  if 
to  insure  himself  against  a  repetition  of  her  offence,  and 
quite  mechanically  dried  his  hand  with  a  handkerchief. 
And  then,  in  a  flash,  he  lost  his  temper. 

"  What  the  devil  do  you  mean  by  doing  that  to  me  ?  " 
he  demanded  harshly.  "  Look  here  —  you  stop  this 
nonsense.  I  won't  have  it.  I  —  why  —  it 's  outra- 
geous !  What  right  have  you  got  to  —  to  do  anything  like 
that?" 

The  shock  of  his  anger  brought  the  girl  to  her  senses. 
Her  tears  ceased  in  an  instant,  as  if  automatically.  She 
rose,  mopping  her  face  with  her  handkerchief,  swallowed 
one  last  sob,  and  moved  sullenly  toward  the  door. 

"I'm  sorry,"  she  mumbled.  "I  —  you've  been  very 
kind  to  me  —  I  forgot  myself.  I  'm  sorry." 

"  Well  .  .  ."  he  said  grudgingly,  in  his  irritation. 
"  But  don't  let  it  happen  again." 

"  There  's  no  chance  of  that,"  the  girl  retorted  with  a 
brief -lived  flash  of  spirit.  "  Good  night." 

"  Good  night,"  he  returned. 

She  was  gone  before  he  recovered;  and  then  compunc- 
tion smote  him,  and  he  followed  her  as  far  as  the  hallway. 

In  the  half-light  of  the  flickering  gas-jet,  he  saw  her 
only  as  a  shadow  slowly  mounting  the  staircase.  And  a 
glance  toward  the  front  door  discovered  indistinct  shapes 
of  lodgers  on  the  stoop. 

"  Miss  Thursday !  "  he  called  in  a  guarded  voice. 

She  heard,  hesitated  a  single  instant,  then  with  quick- 
ened steps  resumed  the  ascent. 

He  called  once  again,  but  she  refused  to  listen,  and  he 
returned  to  his  study  in  a  state  of  insensate  rage ;  which, 
however,  had  this  time  himself  for  its  sole  object  — 
Joan's  transgression  quite  lost  sight  of  in  remorse  for  his 
brutality.  He  could  not  remember  ever  having  spoken 
to  any  woman  in  such  wise:  no  man  had  any  right  to 


JOAN    THURSDAY  161 

speak  to  any  woman  in  such,  a  manner,  for  any  cause, 
however  exasperating. 

Tremendously  disgusted  with  himself,  and  ashamed,  he 
tramped  the  floor  so  long,  trying  to  quiet  his  conscience, 
and  made  so  many  futile  attempts  to  apologize  to  the  girl 
by  word  of  hand  —  one  and  all  either  too  abject  or  too 
constrained  —  that  he  had  lost  his  train  before  he  pro- 
duced the  lame  and  halting  effort  with  which  he  was  at 
length  fain  to  be  content. 

A  later  train  was  bearing  him  under  the  East  River 
to  Long  Island  when  Joan  read  his  message. 

A  servant  had  taken  it  to  the  girl's  room  and,  knock- 
ing without  receiving  an  answer,  concluded  that  Joan 
was  out  and  slipped  it  under  the  door. 

When  the  descending  footsteps  were  no  longer  audible, 
Joan  rose  from  the  bed,  lighted  the  gas,  and  with  blurred 
vision  deciphered  the  lines : 

"  DEAK  Miss  THUBSDAY  :  —  Please  forgive  me  for  my  unmannerly 
exhibition  of  temper.  I  regret  exceedingly  my  inability  to  make  you 
understand  how  sorry  I  am  to  have  hurt  your  feelings. 

"  And  do  please  understand  that  there  is  no  grave  dissatisfaction 
with  your  work  at  rehearsals.  Remember  that  you  have  two  weeks 
more  in  which  to  show  what  you  can  do. 

"  I  shall  hope  that  you  are  not  too  deeply  offended  to  overlook  my 
loss  of  temper  and  to  continue  typing  my  book ;    if  possible  I  M  like 
to  have  another  chapter  by  Monday  night. 
"  Sincerely  yours, 

"JOHN  MATTHIAS." 

"  P.  S.  —  I  enclose  —  what  I  'd  completely  forgotten  —  the  regular 
weekly  amount  —  $10." 

She  fell  asleep,  at  length,  with  this  note  crushed  between 
her  pillow  and  her  cheek. 


XVI 

HER  work  proved  invaluable  distraction  for  the  greater 
part  of  that  long  and  lonely  Sunday.  When  not  at  her 
typewriter  she  was  tormented  by  alternate  fits  of  burning 
chagrin  and  of  equally  ardent  gratitude  toward  Matthias. 
Had  this  last  been  in  town  and  chanced  to  meet  her,  she 
must  either  have  quitted  him  definitely  or  have  betrayed 
her  passion  unmistakably  even  to  the  purblind  eyes  of  a 
dreaming  dramatist.  As  it  was,  the  girl  had  time  to  calm 
down,  to  recognize  at  once  his  disinterestedness  and  her 
own  folly.  If  her  infatuation  did  but  deepen  in  contem- 
plation of  his  generosity,  she  none  the  less  regained  poise 
before  bedtime  and  with  it  her  determination  to  succeed 
in  spite  of  her  stupidity,  if  only  to  justify  his  kindness. 

But  the  morning  that  took  her  back  to  rehearsals  found 
her  in  a  mood  of  dire  misgivings.  She  would  have  for- 
feited much  —  anything  other  than  their  further  associa- 
tion —  to  have  been  spared  the  impending  encounter  with 
Matthias.  And  although  the  author  was  not  present  when 
she  reached  the  theatre,  her  embarrassment  hampered  her 
to  a  degree  that  rendered  her  attempts  td  act  more  than 
ever  farcical. 

Wilbrow,  seated  in  a  chair  on  the  "  apron "  of  the 
stage,  his  back  to  the  lifeless  footlights,  did  not  interrupt 
her  once ;  but  despair  was  patent  in  his  attitude,  and  de- 
spair informed  his  eyes,  and  not  long  after  her  scene  was 
finished  the  producer  for  the  first  time  betrayed  indica- 
tions of  temper. 

"  Elaine !  "  he  said  abruptly  in  a  chilling  voice  to  one 
of  the  minor  actors  —  "  don't  you  know  there  's  a  window 
over  there  —  up  left  centre  ?  " 

The  player  thus  addressed,  who  had  been  idling  purpose- 


JOAN    THURSDAY  163 

lessly  near  the  centre  of  the  stage,  looked  up  with  a  face 
of  blank  surprise. 

"  Sure/'  he  said  —  "  sure  I  know  it." 

"  That 's  something,  at  least !  "  Wilbrow  commented 
acidly.  "  I  'm  glad  you  remember  it.  If  I  'm  not  mis- 
taken, I  Ve  reminded  you  of  that  window  twice  every  day 
since  Monday." 

"  Yes,"  agreed  the  other  with  a  look  of  painful  concen- 
tration ;  "  I  guess  that 's  right,  too." 

"  And  yet  you  can't  remember  what  I  've  told  you  just 
as  often  —  that  I  want  you  to  be  up  there,  looking  out  of 
the  window,  when  Sylvia  enters !  " 

The  actor  turned  out  expostulatory  palms.  "  But,  Mr. 
Wilbrow,  what  for  ?  I  don't  see  —  " 

"  Because,"  the  producer  interrupted  incisively,  "  the 
stage  directions  indicate  it;  because  the  significance  of 
this  scene  requires  you  to  be  there,  looking  out,  unaware 
of  Sylvia's  entrance;  because  you  look  better  there;  be- 
cause it  dresses  the  stage ;  because  you  're  in  the  way  any- 
where else ;  because  I  —  God  help  me !  —  because  I  — 
want  —  you  —  to  — '  be  —  there  !  " 

A  smothered  giggle  broke  from  a  group  of  players  tech- 
nically off-stage.  Wilbrow  glared  icily  toward  that 
quarter. 

"  Yes,  I  know,"  Elaine  agreed  intelligently.  "  But 
how  do  I  get  there  ?  " 

The  front  legs  of  Wilbrow's  chair  rapped  the  boards 
smartly  as  he  jumped  up.  In  silence,  he  grasped  Elaine's 
arm  and  with  a  slightly  exaggerated  melodramatic  stride 
propelled  him  to  the  indicated  spot,  released  him,  and 
stood  back. 

"  Walk !  "  he  announced  with  an  inimitable  gesture  of 
tolerant  contempt;  and  went  back  to  his  chair.  Not  a 
line  of  his  face  had  changed.  He  sat  down,  nodded  to  the 
leading  woman. 

"All  right,  Mary,"  he  said;  and  to  another  actor: 
"  Now,  the  cue  for  Sylvia,  please !  " 


164  JOAN    THURSDAY 

Joan  shivered  a  little. 

Matthias  did  not  come  in  until  after  the  girl  had  fin- 
ished her  part  in  the  afternoon  rehearsal.  She  caught 
sight  of  him  in  the  darkened  auditorium  just  as  she  went 
off ;  and  hurried  from  the  house  in  tremulous  dread. 

But  a  meeting  was  inevitable;  and  that  evening,  just 
before  the  dinner  hour,  found  her  reluctantly  knuckling 
the  door  of  the  back-parlour.  The  voice  of  Matthias  bade 
her  enter,  and  she  drew  upon  all  her  scant  store  of  courage 
as  she  turned  the  knob.  To  her  immense  relief  he  was 
not  alone.  Hideout  and  Moran,  the  scene  painter,  were 
in  consultation  with  Matthias  over  two  small  model  stages 
set  with  painted  pasteboard  scenery. 

Matthias  greeted  her  with  a  preoccupied  smile  and 
nod. 

"  Oh,  good  evening,  Miss  Thursday.  More  'script,  eh  ? 
Thank  you." 

Silently  Joan  gave  him  the  manuscript  and  left  the 
room.  But  the  door  had  no  sooner  closed  than  it  was  re- 
opened and  again  closed.  She  turned  to  face  this  dreaded 
crisis. 

His  smile  was  friendly  and  pleasant  if  a  trace  uncer- 
tain. He  made  as  if  to  offer  his  hand,  and  thought  better 
of  it. 

"  Oh,  Miss  Thursday  ...  I  sent  you  a  note  .  .  ." 

She  nodded,  timid  eyes  avoiding  his. 

"  Am  I  forgiven  ?  " 

"I  —  I  —  if  you  '11  forgive  me  —  "  she  faltered. 

"  Then  that 's  all  right !  "  he  cried  heartily.  "  I  'm 
glad,"  he  added  with  unquestionable  sincerity  —  "  and 
sorry  I  was  such  a  brute.  I  ought  to  have  understood 
what  a  strain  you  'd  been  under.  Shall  we  say  no  more 
about  it  ? " 

She  nodded  again :  "  Please  .  .  .  ' 

"  Good !  "  He  offered  his  hand  frankly,  subjected  hers 
to  a  firm,  cool  pressure,  and  moved  back  to  his  study  door. 
"  Good  night." 


JOAN    THURSDAY  165 

She  whispered  her  response,  and  ran  upstairs  to  her 
room,  almost  beside  herself  with  delight. 

It  was  all  right! 

Best  of  all,  the  advances  had  come  from  him;  he  it 
was  who  had  sued  for  pardon  where  the  fault  was  hers 
—  clear  proof  that  he  thought  enough  of  her  to  wish  to 
retain  her  friendship ! 

With  a  glad  and  comforted  heart  she  settled  down  to 
attack  anew  the  vexatious  problem  of  her  role  in  "  The 
Jade  God." 

But  for  all  her  worry  and  good  will,  the  next  morning's 
rehearsal  of  her  scenes  passed  off  in  the  same  terrible 
silence  as  had  marked  Monday's.  And  in  the  same  after- 
noon the  storm  broke. 

After  plodding  through  her  first  scene,  Joan  was  about 
to  go  off  when  Wilbrow  called  her. 

"  Miss  Thursday,"  he  said  quietly,  "  one  of  three  things 
has  got  to  happen  —  now:  either  you  '11  follow  my  instruc- 
tions, or  you  '11  quit,  or  I  will.  I  've  told  you  what  I 
want  so  many  times  that  I  'm  tired  repeating  myself. 
ISTow  we  're  going  to  go  over  that  scene  again  and  again, 
if  it  takes  all  afternoon  to  get  what  I  'm  after.  But,  be- 
fore we  start,  I  will  ask  you  to  bear  one  thing  in  mind: 
this  is  n't  an  ingenue  part ;  there  's  no  excuse  for  acting 
it  like  a  petulant  school-girl.  Even  pretty  stenographers 
are  business-like  in  real  life  —  sometimes  —  and  we  're 
trying  to  secure  some  semblance  of  real  life  in  this  pro- 
duction. In  other  words,  I  want  you  to  forget  Billie 
Burke  and  try  to  act  like  a  human  being  who  's  a  little 
sore  on  her  job  and  her  employer,  but  not  sore  enough 
to  chuck  it  just  yet.  Now,  if  you  please  —  begin  right 
at  the  beginning." 

For  an  instant  Joan  stood  hesitant,  on  the  verge  of  re- 
fusing. There  seemed  to  be  no  satisfying  this  man:  he 
either  did  n't  or  would  n't  understand ;  she  tried  desper- 
ately to  please  him  —  and  her  sole  reward  was  to  be  held 
up  to  the  derision  of  the  entire  company!  It  was  in- 


166  JOAN    THURSDAY 

tolerable !  And  of  a  sudden  she  hated  Wilbrow  with  every 
atom  of  her  being.  But  ...  if  she  were  to  talk  back  or 
refuse  to  go  on,  Matthias  would  be  forfeited  from  her  life. 

She  choked  down  her  chagrin,  resisted  the  temptation 
to  wither  Wilbrow  with  a  glare,  and  sulkily  resumed  her 
place  in  the  chair  beside  another  chair  that  was  politely 
presumed  to  be  her  typewriter  desk. 

At  once  the  fat  boy  whom  she  detested  crossed  the  in- 
definite line  dividing  the  scene  from  "  off-stage,"  and  leer- 
ing insolently,  spoke  the  opening  line  of  the  play.  Seeth- 
ing with  indignation,  the  girl  looked  up  and  in  cutting 
accents  shot  her  reply  at  him.  She  was  pleased  to  sur- 
prise a  look  of  dumb  amazement  in  his  eyes.  At  all 
events,  she  had  succeeded  in  letting  him  know  just  how 
she  felt  toward  him!  And  this  success  inspired  her  to 
further  efforts.  She  rattled  through  the  remainder  of  the 
scene  with  the  manner  of  a  youthful  termagant. 

When  she  had  finished,  Wilbrow  said  nothing  beyond: 
"  Again,  please." 

The  demand  served  only  to  deepen  her  resentment, 
and  the  second  repetition  differed  not  materially  from  the 
first. 

Ceasing  to  speak,  she  flounced  away,  but  Wilbrow's  voice 
brought  her  back. 

"  Very  good,  Miss  Thursday,"  he  said  mildly  —  "  very 
good  indeed.  But  why  —  in  the  name  of  Mike !  —  if  you 
could  do  it  —  why  would  n't  you  until  now  ?  " 

"  Because,"  Joan  stammered  —  "  because  — !  " 

But  she  did  n't  dare  say  what  she  wished  to,  and  checked 
her  tongue  in  a  fit  of  sulks  more  eloquent  than  any  words 
she  could  have  found. 

Wilbrow  waited  an  instant,  then  laughed  quite  cheer- 
fully. 

"  The  usual  reason,  eh  ?  I  might  have  guessed  you  had 
a  sure-'nough  one  concealed  about  you.  .  .  .  That 's  all 
for  today.  Tomorrow  morning  at  nine." 

Privately  pondering  this  experience,  Joan  surprised  its 


JOAN    THURSDAY  167 

secret,  and  drew  from,  it  a  conclusion  that  was  to  have  an 
important  influence  upon  her  professional  future :  in  order 
to  act  convincingly,  she  must  herself  feel  the  emotions  ac- 
credited to  her  part.  As  applied  to  her  individual  tem- 
perament, at  that  stage  of  its  development,  this  rule  had 
all  the  inflexibility  of  an  axiom.  Others  might  —  as 
others  do  —  act  in  obedience  to  the  admonitions  of  their 
intelligence:  Joan  could  at  that  stage  act  only  according 
to  the  promptings  of  her  emotional  self. 

So  she  encouraged  herself  to  hate  Wilbrow  with  all  her 
heart,  to  despise  him  without  ceasing  night  or  day;  no 
charitable  thought  of  the  manager  was  suffered  to  gain 
access  to  her  humour  at  any  hour.  And  so  admirably  did 
she  succeed  in  impregnating  her  mind  with  virulent  dis- 
like of  the  man,  that  she  afforded  him  no  end  of  amuse- 
ment. She  made  a  point  of  coming  to  the  rehearsals  early 
enough  to  infuriate  herself  with  contemplation  of  him  in 
the  flesh;  and  of  walking  up  and  down,  before  and  be- 
tween her  scenes,  thinking  evil  of  him.  The  twinkle  with 
which  his  eyes  followed  her,  in  place  of  their  erstwhile 
calm  indifference  or  resignation,  worked  only  to  intensify 
her  rancour.  Curiously  enough,  a  clear  comprehension  of 
the  illogical  absurdity  of  it  all  made  her  temper  even 
more  bitter. 

One  day  just  before  the  final  rehearsals,  Wilbrow,  meet- 
ing her  at  the  stage-door,  planted  his  slender  body  squarely 
in  her  way. 

"  Good  morning !  "  he  said  cheerfully,  with  a  semi- 
malicious  smile.  "  My  congratulations,  Miss  Thursday ! 
You  're  doing  nobly." 

"  Thanks,"  Joan  said  curtly,  pausing  perforce. 

"  You  ought  to  be  very  grateful  to  me.    Are  you  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  I  wonder  what  you  'd  do  under  the  direction  of  a  man 
you  happened  to  like  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know."  Joan  gave  him  a  sullen  look.  "  Will 
you  please  let  me  pass." 


168  JOAN    THURSDAY 

"  Delighted."  He  moved  aside  with  mocking  courtesy. 
"  I  ask  only  one  thing  of  you :  don't  fall  in  love  with  me 
before  our  first  night.  I  have  n't  got  time  to  sour  another 
sweet  young  thing's  amiable  disposition.  .  .  .  Keep  on 
hating  me  as  hard  as  you  like  —  and  we  '11  make  at  least 
a  half-portion  actress  of  you  yet."  .  .  . 

Toward  the  end  of  the  second  week,  Joan  began  to 
notice  that  Hideout  was  growing  less  assiduous  in  attend- 
ance. At  first  inclined  to  lay  this  to  his  satisfaction  with 
the  progress  —  to  her  the  production  seemed  to  be  taking 
on  form  and  colour  in  a  way  to  wonder  at  —  she  later 
overheard  a  chance  remark  of  one  of  her  associates,  to 
the  effect  that  Hideout  was  himself  rehearsing  with  an- 
other company. 

"  Well,"  someone  commented,  "  if  it  was  my  coin  back 
of  this  show,  I  'd  stick  by  it  if  I  had  to  play  the  office- 
boy." 

"  I  guess,"  was  the  reply,  "  Hideout  ain't  got  any 
too  much  outside  what  he 's  sunk  in  this  production. 
Should  n't  wonder  if  he  needs  what  he 's  to  get  with 
Minnie  Aspen." 

"  Mebbe.  He 's  a  good  trouper.  What  does  he  drag 
down,  anyway  ?  " 

"  Four  hundred  a  week." 

"  Nix  with  those  Lambs'  Club  figures.  I  mean  regular 
money." 

"  Oh,  two  hundred  and  fifty,  sure." 

"  Now  you  've  said  something."  .  .  . 

During  the  third  week  it  was  announced  that  "  The 
Jade  God  "  would  open  in  Altoona  on  the  following  Mon- 
day. And  at  the  same  time  Joan  discovered  that  she  was 
expected  to  provide  her  own  costume,  a  simple  affair  but 
unhappily  beyond  the  resources  of  either  her  wardrobe  or 
her  pocketbook.  In  despair  she  took  the  advice  of  Mrs. 
Arnold  (the  sweet-faced  lady  of  fifty,  whom  Joan  counted 
her  only  friend  on  the  company)  and  approached  Hideout's 
personal  representative,  Druggett,  with  a  demand  for  an 


JOAN    THURSDAY  169 

advance.  With  considerable  reluctance  Druggett  surren- 
dered fifteen  dollars,  and  promised  her  as  much  more  on 
Monday,  toward  expenses  on  the  road.  And  again  on  the 
advice  and  introduction  of  Mrs.  Arnold,  the  girl  suc- 
ceeded in  satisfying  her  needs  at  an  instalment-plan 
clothing-house:  paying  eight  dollars  down  on  a  bill  of 
about  forty  and  agreeing  to  remit  the  balance  at  the  rate 
of  four  dollars  each  week. 

The  final  dress-rehearsal  was  called  for  Saturday  morn- 
ing. They  were  to  leave  New  York  Sunday  night.  But 
on  Friday  afternoon  a  sense  of  uneasiness  and  uncertainty 
invaded  the  temper  of  the  organization.  Wilbrow  neg- 
lected the  players  to  engage  in  protracted  conferences  with 
Matthias,  Hideout,  Moran,  and  Druggett,  out  of  earshot, 
at  the  back  of  the  auditorium.  One  or  two  weather- 
wise  "  troupers "  hazarded  gloomy  surmises  as  to  the 
nature  of  the  "  snag " :  that  most  favoured  involved  a 
"  shake-up  with  the  Shuberts "  over  some  change  in 
their  route.  With  a  singular  unanimity  the  prophets  of 
disaster  either  avoided  or  overlooked  the  actual  cause  of 
the  trouble. 

At  ten  o'clock  the  next  morning  —  a  little  late  —  Joan, 
with  her  costume  in  the  dilapidated  wicker  suit-case,  hur- 
ried into  the  theatre  to  find  the  company  scattered  about 
the  stage  in  poses  variously  suggestive  of  restless  dejection. 
Neither  the  star  nor  the  leading  woman  was  present,  and 
there  was  no  scenery  in  sight,  other  than  that  belonging  to 
the  production  which  occupied  the  same  stage  nightly. 
Hideout  was  nowhere  to  be  seen,  but  the  author,  the  pro- 
ducer, and  Druggett  were  engaged  in  earnest  but  inaudible 
argument  "  out  front."  From  their  manner  Joan  inferred 
that  Druggett  was  advocating  some  course  actively  opposed 
by  Wilbrow  and  passively  by  Matthias.  The  group  broke 
up  before  she  found  opportunity  to  question  her  associates. 
Druggett,  in  manifest  dudgeon,  turned  sharply  and 
marched  out  of  the  house,  while  Wilbrow  strode  purpose- 
fully back  to  the  stage  by  way  of  the  passage  behind  the 


170  JOAN    THURSDAY 

boxes,  Matthias  following  with  an  air  of  profound  disgust 
and  despondency. 

From  the  centre  of  the  stage  the  producer  addressed  the 
little  gathering. 

"  Ladies  and  gentlemen !  "  he  said  sharply ;  and  waited 
until  he  had  all  their  attention.  "  There  '11  be  no  re- 
hearsal today,  and  —  and  unless  something  quite  unex- 
pected happens,  we  won't  open  Monday.  The  truth  is, 
there  is  n't  money  enough  behind  this  show  to  finance  it 
beyond  Altoona.  Moran  can't  collect  on  his  scenery,  and 
won't  deliver.  Mr.  Matthias  has  offered  to  fix  Moran 
up  if  we  agree  to  go  out,  but  I  can't  see  it  that  way.  Mr. 
Hideout's  proposition  is  that  we  go  on  the  road  and  run 
our  chances  of  making  expenses  —  but  I  don't  have  to  tell 
you  people  what  a  swell  show  we  'd  have  of  breaking  even 
on  a  tank  route  at  this  season  of  the  year  —  hot  weather 
still  with  us,  and  all  that.  We  might  —  but  that 's  about 
all  you  can  say.  And  I  don't  think  any  of  us  want  to 
count  ties  from  Altoona.  .  .  . 

"  Mr.  Druggett  thinks  that  Mr.  Hideout  will  be  able  to 
make  a  deal  with  the  Shuberts,  but  I  doubt  it.  Just 
now  they  're  all  tied  up  with  their  own  productions  and 
have  no  time  to  waste  on  a  gambling  risk  like  this.  Of 
course,  if  I  'm  wrong,  you  '11  all  be  notified.  But  I 
would  n't,  if  I  were  you,  pass  up  another  engagement  on 
the  off-chance  of  this  thing  panning  out  after  all. 

"  I  'm  sorry  about  this  —  we  're  all  sorry,  naturally. 
We  all  lose.  Mr.  Matthias  here  loses  as  much  as  any  of 
us  —  the  rights  in  a  valuable  property  for  several  months, 
at  the  inside.  I  'm  out  fifteen  hundred  dollars  I  was  to 
get  for  putting  the  show  on.  And  Hideout 's  out  the  two 
thousand  real  coin  he  's  invested  in  expectation  of  back- 
ing which  failed  to  materialize.  Personally  I  refused  to 
shoulder  the  responsibility  of  letting  you  go  out  in  igno- 
rance of  the  real  state  of  affairs.  That 's  all." 

He  hesitated  an  instant,  as  if  not  satisfied  that  he  had 
dealt  fully  with  the  situation,  and  glanced  a  little  ruefully 


JOAN    THURSDAY  171 

from  face  to  face  of  the  company.  But  for  the  moment 
none  made  any  comment.  And  with  an  uncertain  nod  to 
the  author,  Wilbrow  turned  and  disappeared  through  the 
stage-door. 

Matthias  waited  a  trifle  longer,  as  though  anticipating 
trouble  with  the  disappointed  players;  but  there  was  no 
feeling  manifest  in  their  attitude  toward  him  other  than 
sympathy  for  a  fellow-sufferer.  And  presently  he  con- 
sulted his  watch  and  followed  the  stage-director. 

Those  left  in  the  theatre  discussed  the  contretemps  in 
subdued  and  regretful  accents,  betraying  surprisingly  little 
rancour  toward  anyone  connected  with  it.  Even  Hideout 
escaped  with  slight  censure.  He  was,  in  the  final  analysis, 
one  of  them  —  an  incurable  optimist  who  had  erred  only 
in  banking  too  heavily  on  hope  and  promises. 

By  twos  and  threes  they  gathered  up  their  belongings 
and  straggled  off  upon  their  various  ways,  a  sorry,  philo- 
sophic crew.  Within  ten  minutes  their  dissociation  was 
final  and  absolute. 


XVII 

LATE  in  the  evening,  Matthias  gave  it  up,  and  shaking 
off  Hideout  (whose  only  hope  had  resided  in  the  author's 
anxiety  to  save  his  play)  betook  himself  to  an  out-of-the- 
way  restaurant  to  idle  with  a  tasteless  meal. 

He  was  at  once  dog-weary  and  heart-sick. 

The  net  outcome  of  some  ten  hours  of  runnings  to  and 
from,  of  meetings  and  schemings,  of  conferences  by  tele- 
phone and  of  communications  by  telegraph  with  those  who 
had  promised  financial  support  to  Hideout's  project,  was 
an  empty  assurance,  indifferently  given  by  the  Shuberts, 
to  the  effect  that,  if  nothing  happened  to  make  them  think 
otherwise,  they  might  possibly  be  prepared  to  consider  the 
advisability  of  producing  "  The  Jade  God  "  about  the  first 
of  January. 

The  truth  of  the  situation  was  that  neither  the  Shuberts 
nor  any  other  managerial  concern  was  likely  (as  Wilbrow 
put  it)  "  to  look  cross-eyed  at  the  piece  "  until  they  could 
get  full  control  of  it;  which  would  be  in  some  three 
months,  when  Hideout's  contract  to  produce  would  expire 
by  limitation.  And  since  Hideout  might  be  counted  upon 
to  hold  on  to  his  contract  rights  till  the  last  minute  and 
leave  nothing  else  undone  in  the  effort  to  recoup  his  already 
substantial  losses,  it  was  useless  to  consider  the  play  as 
anything  but  a  property  of  potential  value  relegated  in- 
definitely to  abeyance. 

Matthias  believed  in  the  play  with  all  his  heart.  Dur- 
ing the  last  three  weeks  he  had  watched  it  come  to  life  and 
assume  the  form  he  had  dreamed  for  it,  coloured  with  the 
rich  hues  of  his  imagination  and  quick  with  the  breath  of 
living  drama.  And  because  he  possessed  in  some  measure 


JOAN    THURSDAY  173 

that  rare  faculty  of  being  able  to  weigh,  justly  the  work  of 
his  own  hand,  and  had  looked  upon  this  and  seen  that  it 
was  good,  he  had  counted  on  it  to  win  him  that  recognition 
which,  more  than  money,  his  pride  craved  —  partly  by  way 
of  some  compensation  for  what  it  had  suffered  at  the  hands 
of  Venetia  Tankerville. 

He  was  still  sore  with  the  hurt  of  that  experience. 
Privately  he  doubted  whether  he  would  ever  wholly  re- 
cover from  it ;  but  the  doubt  was  a  very  private  one,  never 
discovered  even  to  his  most  sympathetic  friends,  not  even 
to  Helena,  whose  scorn  of  her  sister-in-law  remained  im- 
measurable. Fortunate  in  having  been  able  to  afford  those 
several  weeks  in  the  wooded  hills  of  Maine,  in  their  fra- 
grant and  passionless  silences  Matthias  had  found  peace 
and  regained  confidence  in  his  old,  well-tried,  wholesome 
code  of  philosophy;  which  held  that  though  here  and 
there  a  man  ill-used  by  chance  or  woman  might  be  found, 
the  world  was  none  the  less  sound  and  kind  at  heart,  and 
good  to  live  in. 

For  all  that,  he  could  not  easily  endure  the  thought 
of  Venetia's  lowering  herself  to  use  him  to  further  her 
love  affair  with  Marbridge;  of  Venetia  going  from  his 
arms  and  lips  to  the  lips  and  arms  of  that  insolent  animal, 
Marbridge :  the  one  amused  by  her  successful  cunning,  the 
other  contemptuous  in  his  conquest.  And  he  often  won- 
dered with  what  justice  he  judged  the  woman.  It  com- 
forted him  a  little,  at  times,  to  believe  that  she  had  not 
acted  so  cruelly  altogether  as  a  free  agent,  to  think  her 
meeting  with  Marbridge  in  New  York  a  freak  of  chance 
and  fate,  her  elopement  an  unpremeditated  and  spon- 
taneous surrender  to  the  indisputable  magnetism  of  the 
man.  Marbridge  commanded  the  reluctant  admiration 
of  men  who  did  not  like  him  —  who  knew  him  too  well 
to  like  him.  How  much  more  easily,  then,  might  he  not 
have  overcome  the  scruples  of  a  girl  untutored  in  the 
knowledge  of  her  own  heart  .  .  . 

Or  had  it  all  been  due  merely  to  the  fact  that  John 


174  JOAN    THURSDAY 

Matthias  was  not  a  man  to  hold  the  love  of  women  ?  Such 
men  exist,  antipathetic  to  the  Marbridges  of  the  world. 
Was  he  of  their  unhappy  order,  incapable  of  inspiring 
enduring  love? 

He  could  review  a  modest  cycle  of  flirtations  with 
women  variously  charming  and  willing  to  be  amused,  light- 
hearted  attachments  and  short-lived,  one  and  all,  those 
that  might  have  proved  more  lasting  broken  off  without 
ill-will  on  either  side  —  though  always  by  the  woman. 
Venetia  alone  had  named  Love  to  him  as  if  it  stood  to 
her  for  something  higher  and  more  significant  than  the 
diversion  of  an  empty  hour  —  Venetia  who  was  now  in 
Italy,  the  bride  of  Marbridge! 

And  yet,  oddly  enough,  it  was  n't  his  memories  of 
Venetia  and  his  regrets  and  wounded  self-esteem  that  ren- 
dered insipid  his  belated  dinner  and  made  him  presently 
abandon  it  in  favour  of  the  distracting  throngs  of  Broad- 
way. They  were  thoughts  of  another  woman  altogether 
that  urged  him  forth  and  homeward  —  a  poignant  sym- 
pathy for  Joan  Thursday,  the  friendless  and  forlorn,  whose 
high  anticipations  had  with  his  own  that  day  gone  crashing 
to  disaster.  He  could  n't  remember  what  had  made  him 
think  of  her,  but  now  that  he  did,  it  was  with  disturbing 
interest. 

He  found  himself  suddenly  very  sorry  for  the  girl  — 
much  more  sorry  for  her  than  for  himself.  What  to  him 
was  at  worst  a  staggering  reverse,  to  her  must  seem 
calamitous  beyond  repair. 

It  was  n't  hard  to  conjure  up  a  picture  of  the  child,  piti- 
fully huddled  upon  her  bed,  in  tears,  heart-broken,  deso- 
late, perhaps  (since  he  had  not  been  home  to  pay  her) 
supperless  and  hungry! 

Matthias  quickened  his  stride.  His  suddenly  awakened 
and  deep  solicitude  tormented  him.  He  had  received  evi- 
dence that  Joan's  was  a  nature  tempestuous  and  prone  to 
extremes :  he  did  n't  like  to  contemplate  the  lengths  to 
which  despair  might  drive  her. 


JOAN    THURSDAY  175 

Through  the  texture  of  this  new-found  care  ran  a 
thread  of  irritation  that  it  should  have  proved  a  care  to 
him.  He  realized  that  he  must  of  late  have  been  giving 
a  deal  of  thought  to  the  girl.  Formerly  he  had  been 
aware  of  her  much  as  he  was  of  Madame  Duprat;  such 
kindness  as  he  had  shown  her  had  been  no  greater  than, 
and  of  much  the  same  order  as,  he  would  have  shown  a 
stray  puppy.  Tonight  he  found  himself  unable  to  con- 
template her  as  other  than  a  vital  figure  in  his  life  —  a 
creature  of  fire  and  blood,  of  spirit  and  flesh,  at  once 
enigmatic  and  absolute,  owning  claims  upon  his  consider- 
ation no  less  actual  because  passive.  He  who  had  pledged 
his  ability  and  willingness  to  find  her  a  foothold  on  the 
stage,  was  responsible  for  her  present  distress  and  disap- 
pointment. And  if  his  good  offices  had  been  sought  rather 
than  voluntary,  still  was  he  responsible ;  for  she  would  n't 
have  dreamed  of  seeking  them  if  he  had  n't  in  the  first 
place  insisted  on  putting  her  under  obligation  to  him.  He 
had  in  a  measure  bidden  her  to  look  to  him;  now  it  was 
his  part  to  look  out  for  her. 

Hardly  a  pleasant  predicament :  Matthias  resented  it  bit- 
terly, with  impatience  conceding  the  weight  of  that  doc- 
trine which  teaches  the  fatal  responsibility  of  man  for 
his  hand's  each  and  every  idle  turn.  He  had  paused  to 
pity  a  stray  child  of  the  town;  and  because  of  that,  he 
now  found  himself  saddled  with  her  welfare.  A  situation 
exasperating  to  a  degree !  And,  he  argued,  it  was  merely 
this  subconscious  sense  of  duty  which  had  of  late  held 
the  girl  so  prominently  in  his  mind  —  ever  since,  in  fact, 
that  night  when  she  had  broken  down  and  impulsively 
kissed  his  hand.  Just  that  one  hot-headed,  frantic, 
foolish  act  had  primarily  brought  home  to  Matthias  his 
obligations  as  the  object  of  her  unsought,  unwelcome 
gratitude.  .  .  . 

He  found  Joan  waiting  on  the  stoop:  a  silent  and 
vigilant  figure,  aloof  from  the  other  lodgers  —  a  woman 
and  two  or  three  men  lounging  on  the  steps.  And  as  these 


176  JOAN    THURSDAY 

moved  aside  to  give  Matthias  way,  Joan  rose  and  slipped 
quietly  indoors,  where  in  the  hall  she  turned  back  with  a 
gesture  that  too  clearly  betrayed  the  strain  and  tensity  of 
her  emotions ;  but,  to  his  gratification,  she  was  dry  of  eye 
and  outwardly  composed. 

"  You  were  waiting  for  me  ? "  he  asked ;  and  taking 
assent  for  granted  rattled  on  with  a  show  of  cheerful 
contrition :  "  Sorry  I  'm  late.  There  were  ten  dozen  stones 
we  had  to  turn,  you  know." 

Her  eyes  questioned. 

He  smiled,  apologetic :  "  No  use ;  Hideout  simply  can't 
swing  it." 

"  I  've  finished  typewriting  that  book,"  she  announced 
obliquely. 

"  Have  you  ?  That 's  splendid !  Will  you  bring  it  to 
me  ?  And  then  we  can  have  a  little  talk." 

She  nodded  —  "I  '11  go  fetch  it  right  away  "  —  and 
scurried  hastily  up  the  stairs  as  he  went  on  to  his  room. 

Leaving  the  door  ajar  and  lighting  his  reading-lamp, 
Matthias  closed  the  shutters  at  the  long  windows,  adjusting 
their  slats  for  ventilation.  Then  for  some  minutes  he  was 
left  to  himself.  Resting  against  the  edge  of  his  work-table, 
he  studied  ruefully  a  cigarette  which  he  was  too  indifferent 
or  too  distracted  to  continue  smoking.  Smouldering 
between  his  fingers,  its  slender  stalk  of  pearly  vapour 
ascended  with  hardly  a  waver  in  the  still  air,  to  mushroom 
widely  above  his  head.  It  held  his  eyes  and  his  thoughts 
in  dreaming. 

He  was  thinking,  simply  and  unconsciously,  of  the 
Joan  he  had  just  realized  in  the  half-light  of  the  hallway: 
a  straight,  slim  creature  with  eyes  like  troubled  stars,  her 
round  little  chin  held  high  as  if  in  mute  defiance  of  out- 
rageous circumstance;  vividly  alive;  giving  a  strange 
impression,  as  of  some  half-wild  thing,  at  once  timid  and 
spirited,  odd  and  —  beautiful. 

To  the  sound  of  a  light  tap  on  the  open  door,  the  girl 
herself  entered,  a  mute  incarnation  of  that  disturbing 


JOAN    THURSDAY  177 

memory.  She  put  down  the  manuscript  before  acknowl- 
edging his  silent  and  intent  regard.  But  becoming  aware 
of  this,  her  eyes  wavered  and  fell,  then  again  steadied  to 
his.  He  was  vastly  concerned  with  the  surprising  length 
of  her  dark  silken  lashes  and  the  delicate  shadows  on  her 
warm,  rich  flesh.  And  he  was  sensitive  to  the  virginal 
sweetness  and  fluent  grace  of  her  round  and  slender  body. 
Vaguely  he  divined  that  the  calm  courage  of  her  bearing 
was  merely  a  naive  mask  for  a  nature  racked  by  intense 
feeling.  .  .  . 

"  That 's  the  last,"  she  said  quietly,  indicating  the 
manuscript.  "  I  finished  up  this  evening,"  she  added, 
superfluously  yet  without  any  evidence  of  consciousness. 

"  Thank  you.  I  'm  glad  to  get  it."  Ransacking  his 
pockets,  Matthias  found  money,  and  paid  her  for  the 
week. 

"  I  suppose  that  '11  be  all  ?  "  she  asked  steadily.  "  I 
mean,  you  won't  want  any  more  typewriting  done  for  a 
while  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  he  said  slowly.  "  We  '11  have  to  ... 
talk  things  over.  Today  has  changed  everything.  .  .  . 
If  you  don't  mind,  I  '11  shut  the  door :  people  all  the  time 
passing  through  the  hall  .  .  ." 

She  shook  her  head  slightly  to  indicate  a  mild  degree 
of  impatience  with  his  punctiliousness  about  that  blessed 
door.  Unconscious  of  this,  having  closed  it,  he  returned 
to  her,  frowning  a  little  as  he  reviewed  her  circumstances 
with  a  mind  that  seemed  suddenly  to  have  lost  its  cus- 
tomary efficiency  of  grasp. 

He  found  her  eyes  and  lost  them  again,  glancing  aside 
in  inexplicable  embarrassment. 

"  I  'm  sorry,"  he  said  slowly,  looking  down  at  the  manu- 
script she  had  just  delivered,  and  abstractedly  disarrang- 
ing it  with  thin,  long  fingers  —  "  awfully  sorry  about  the 
way  things  have  turned  out.  I  —  " 

She  interrupted  him  sharply :  "  O  no,  you  're  not !  " 

He  looked  up  quickly,  amazed  and  disconcerted  by  the 


178  JOAN    THURSDAY 

hint  of  anger  in  her  tone.  A  little  tremor  ran  through 
her  body  and  she  lifted  her  chin  a  trace  higher  while  she 
met  his  stare  with  eyes  hot  and  shining.  Red  spots  like 
signals  blazed  in  her  either  cheek. 

Confused,  he  stammered :  "  I  beg  your  pardon  —  !  " 

"  I  say  you  're  not  sorry.  You  're  glad.  You  're  glad, 
just  like  anybody  else  might  be.  /  don't  blame  you." 

She  shot  these  words  at  him  like  bullets,  with  a  dis- 
turbing display  of  passionate  resentment.  He  opened  his 
lips  to  speak,  and  thinking  better  of  it,  or  else  not  thinking 
at  all  in  his  astonishment,  gaped  witlessly,  wholly  inca- 
pable of  conceiving  what  had  got  into  the  girl. 

With  a  flush  of  scornful  satisfaction  her  eyes  remarked 
these  evidences,  so  easily  to  be  misinterpreted;  then 
quickly  she  lowered  her  head  and  turned  away,  lean- 
ing against  the  table,  her  back  to  the  light  and  face  in 
shadow. 

"  I  don't  blame  you,"  she  repeated  in  a  sullen  murmur. 

He  demanded  blankly :  "  My  dear  girl,  what  do  you 
mean?" 

"  I  mean  .  .  .  Why,  just  that  you  're  glad  to  get  rid 
of  me!  "  she  returned,  looking  away.  He  noticed  the 
nervous  strength  with  which  her  hands  closed  over  the 
edge  of  the  table,  the  whitening  of  their  small  knuckles. 
.  .  .  "  It 's  perfectly  natural,  I  guess.  I  've  been  a  nuis- 
ance so  long,  you  've  got  every  right  to  be  tired  of  having 
me  hang  around  —  " 

"  But,  my  dear  young  woman  — !  " 

She  interrupted  impatiently :  "  Oh,  don't  call  me  that. 
It  don't  mean  anything.  I  guess  I  know  when  I  'm  not 
wanted.  I  '11  go  now  and  never  bother  you  any  more." 

Moving  a  pace  or  two  away,  she  resumed  before  Mat- 
thias could  muster  faculties  to  cope  with  this  emergency: 

"  All  the  same,  I  don't  want  you  to  think  I  don't  ap- 
preciate how  good  you  Ve  been  to  me  —  and  patient,  and 
all  that.  I  am  grateful  —  honest'  —  but  I  'm  not  as  dumb 
as  you  think :  I  know  when  I  'm  in  the  way,  all  right !  " 


JOAN    THURSDAY  179 

"  But  you  entirely  misunderstand  me  —  " 

"  O  no,  I  don't !  You  've  made  yourself  plain  enough, 
if  you  did  n't  think  I  had  sense  enough  to  see.  It  don't 
take  brains  to  see  through  a  man  who  's  only  trying  to  be 
polite  and  kind  —  all  the  time  bored  —  " 

"But,  Miss  Thursday  —  " 

She  turned  toward  the  door. 

He  made  a  gesture  of  open  exasperation.  This  was  all 
so  unfair !  He  had  only  meant  to  be  kind  and  considerate 
and  —  and  everything  like  that !  And  now  she  had  drawn 
against  him  one  of  those  unique  and  damnable  indictments 
which  seem  to  be  peculiarly  the  product  of  a  certain  type 
of  feminine  mentality,  and  against  which  man  is  consti- 
tutionally incapable  of  setting  up  any  effective  defence, 
reason  and  logic  alike  being  arbitrarily  ruled  out  of  court 
by  the  essential  injustice  of  the  charge.  She  chose  to 
accuse  him  of  having  adopted  toward  her  a  mental  attitude 
of  which  he  was  wholly  guiltless;  and  there  was  no  way 
by  which  he  might  persuade  her  of  his  innocence ! 

And  it  was  so  confoundedly  clear  that  she  considered 
herself,  temporarily  at  least,  abused  and  altogether  justi- 
fied of  her  complaint! 

"  Please,"  he  begged,  "  don't  go  yet.  Give  me  a 
chance !  " 

Her  hand  was  on  the  knob.  She  hesitated,  with  an  air 
of  expectant  and  generous  concession. 

"  You  're  really  quite  unfair,"  he  began ;  but  paused 
to  regain  control  of  himself  and  to  wonder  a  little,  blindly, 
why  it  was  that  he  tolerated  her  impudence  —  for  it 
could  n't  be  called  anything  less.  It  would  be  much  more 
sensible  and  quite  just  to  bow  to  her  construction  of  their 
indefinite  relations  and  let  her  go  her  ways  without  more 
argument. 

In  spite  of  everything,  he  could  not  refrain  from  one 
last  attempt  to  set  himself  right. 

"  I  don't  quite  know  what  to  say  to  you,"  he  resumed 
patiently,  "  when  you  insist  on  putting  thoughts  into  my 


180  JOAN    THURSDAY 

head  that  never  were  there.  I  've  really  wanted  to  help 
you  —  " 

"Why?" 

The  monosyllable  brought  him  up  startled  and  staring. 
"  Why  ?  I  hardly  know  .  .  ." 

"  Did  n't  you  know  better  ?  " 

"  I  don't  understand  you  —  " 

Her  eyes  were  wide  and  dark  to  his ;  all  trace  of  petu- 
lance had  faded  from  her  manner.  "  You  ought  to.  You 
ought  to  know,"  she  insisted  quietly,  "  that  a  man  like 
you  can't  be  just  kind  to  a  girl  like  me  without  .  .  .  Oh !  " 
she  cried,  "  I  suppose  it  would  've  been  different  if  the 
show  had  gone  out  —  and  everything  —  but  now,  with  that 
hope  gone  —  and  nothing  more  to  do  for  you  —  with  no 
prospects  but  to  lose  you  —  the  only  friend  I  Ve  got  in 
the  world  — !  " 

Her  voice  broke  at  a  high  pitch,  and  she  fell  silent,  turn- 
ing away  to  stare  with  swimming  eyes  down  at  the  table. 
He  saw  her  trembling  violently,  her  lips  quivering. 
His  amazement  was  extraordinary  and  bewildering.  He 
heard  his  voice,  as  it  might  have  been  another's,  saying: 
"  Does  it  really  mean  so  much  to  you  ?  " 

"  Oh,  can't  you  see !  " 

With  a  little,  helpless  motion  of  her  hands,  she  lifted 
quickly  to  him  a  face  of  flushed  and  tear-dimmed  love- 
liness. Another  man  might  have  been  numb  to  its  appeal : 
to  Matthias  it  proved  irresistible,  coming  sharp  upon  the 
shock  of  comprehending  that  she  offered  him  her  love, 
herself. 

In  a  stride,  hardly  knowing  what  he  did,  he  folded  the 
girl  in  his  arms.  She  lay  therein  for  an  instant  as  though 
bewitched  by  the  exquisite  wonder  of  this  consummation 
of  her  fondest,  maddest  dreams ;  then  in  a  breath  became 
a  woman  reanimate  and  wild  with  love,  clinging  to  him 
with  all  her  strength,  in  an  ecstasy  of  impassioned 
tenderness. 

Bending  his  head,  Matthias  found  her  lips. 


JOAN    THURSDAY  181 

"  My  dear,  dear  girl !  "  he  murmured. 

"  Oh,"  she  breathed,  "  I  have  loved  you  always  — 
always !  " 

"  If  I  had  only  known,  if  I  had  only  guessed  — !  " 

"  How  could  you  ?  /  did  n't  know  .  .  .  not  till  a  little 
while  ago.  .  .  .  And  even  then,  I  could  n't  have  told  you 
.  .  .  only  the  thought  of  losing  you  .  .  .  my  dear,  my 
dear!" 

"  I  never  guessed  .  .  ." 

"  You  're  not  sorry  ?    You  're  not  angry  with  me  —  ?  " 

"  Angry  ?    I  adore  you !  " 

"  You  will  love  me  always  ?  " 

"  Always  and  forever." 

"  And  never  send  me  away  from  you  ?  " 

"  You  shall  never  leave  me  but  of  your  own  will." 

"I  think  I  was  going  mad  with  the  thought  of  losing 
you!" 

"My  beloved  girl!"  .  .  . 

The  dusky  stillness  of  the  room  was  murmurous  with 
whispers,  sighs,  terms  of  endearment  half  smothered  and 
all  but  inaudible. 

To  these  a  foreign  and  alarming  sound:  a  rapping  at 
the  door. 

Matthias  lifted  his  head,  wincing  from  the  interruption. 
The  girl  in  his  arms  moved  feebly,  as  if  to  disengage.  He 
held  her  for  a  moment  still  more  close.  Her  heart  sounded 
sonorously  against  his  bosom.  "  Hush !  "  he  said  in  a  low 
and  warning  voice.  And  then  the  rapping  was  repeated. 
At  once  he  released  her.  She  moved  away,  blushing  and 
dishevelled,  the  fragrant  freshness  of  her  starched  linen 
waist  a  crumpled  disorder,  her  hair  in  disarray,4  her  crim- 
son face  one  of  many  evidences  of  the  tumult  of  her  senses. 

In  the  hallway  a  man's  voice  said :  "  He  must  be  in. 
There  's  a  light  —  " 

A  woman  answered  impatiently :  "  Of  course  he  's  in ; 
but  the  chances  are  he  's  asleep."  She  called  in  a  louder 
tone :  "  Jack  —  Jack  Matthias !  " 


182  JOAN    THURSDAY 

Recognizing  the  voice  of  his  aunt,  that  person,  groaned 
aloud  —  "  O  Lord !  "  —  stole  a  glance  at  Joan,  hesitated, 
shrugged,  as  if  to  say :  There  's  no  help  for  it !  Then  he 
answered  the  door. 

Helena  swept  in  with  a  swirl  of  impatient  skirts. 
"  Good  heavens !  "  she  cried.  "  What  ails  you,  Jackie  ? 
We  knocked  half  a  dozen  times.  Were  you  —  ?  " 

Her  glance  encountering  Joan,  the  words  dried  on  her 
lips. 

Tankerville,  at  her  heels,  jerked  a  motor  gauntlet  from 
his  fat  hand  in  order  to  grasp  that  of  Matthias.  "  Sur- 
prised you  —  eh  ?  "  he  chuckled  —  "  getting  in  so  late. 
Well,  it 's  all  accidental.  We  were  bound  home  —  been 
visiting  the  Hastings  for  a  week,  you  know  —  but  the  car 
broke  down  just  this  side  of  Poughkeepsie  and  delayed 
us  and  .  .  ." 

He  became  distressfully  aware  of  his  wife's  silence, 
simultaneously  ascertained  the  cause  of  it,  and  cut  his 
speech  short  in  full  stride. 

Matthias  laughed  a  little,  quietly:  no  good  trying  to 
carry  off  this  situation ;  by  many  a  clue  aside  from  Joan's 
confusion,  they  were  betrayed. 

"  You  've  caught  us,"  he  said  cheerfully.  "  We  may 
as  well  own  up.  Helena,  this  is  Joan  —  Miss  Thursday 
—  my  fiancee.  And  Joan,  this  is  my  aunt,  Mrs.  Tanker- 
ville —  and  her  husband." 

And  immediately  he  was  conscious  of  the  necessity 
of  bridging  the  pause  that  would  inevitably  hold  these 
three  confounded,  pending  adjustment  to  his  amazing 
announcement. 

"  We  had  intended  to  keep  it  quiet  for  a  while,"  he 
pursued  evenly,  shutting  the  door.  .  .  .  "  Helena,  let  me 
help  you  with  that  cloak.  .  .  .  But  since  you  've  declared 
yourselves  in,  we  can  only  ask  you  to  hold  your  peace 
until  we  're  ready.  I  'm  sure  we  can  count  on  you  both." 

Tankerville  puffed  an  explosive :  "  Oh  —  certainly !  " 

Helena  glanced  shrewdly  from  Joan  to  Matthias.     He 


JOAN    THURSDAY  183 

smiled  his  confidence  in  her,  knowing  that  he  might  count 
upon  her  doing  the  right  thing  to  put  the  girl  at  ease  — 
just  as  positively  as  he  might  count  upon  her  violent  oppo- 
sition to  the  match  as  soon  as  she  discovered  that  he  had 
engaged  himself  to  her  pet  abomination,  a  woman  of  the 
stage. 

With  a  bright  nod  to  him,  she  turned  back  to  Joan; 
drew  slowly  near  to  her;  dropped  kindly  hands  upon  the 
shoulders  of  the  girl. 

"  But,  my  dear !  "  she  exclaimed  in  a  tone  of  expostula- 
tion —  "  you  are  beautiful !  " 


XVIII 

ESCORTING  his  aunt  to  the  car,  Matthias  helped  her  in, 
closed  the  door,  and  then,  with  a  grin  of  amused  resigna- 
tion masking  that  trepidation  to  which  he  was  actually  a 
prey,  folded  his  arms  on  the  top  of  the  door  and  invited 
the  storm  with  one  word  of  whimsical  accent:  "  Well ?  " 

"  Is  it  true  ? "  she  demanded,  as  if  downright  in- 
credulous. 

"  Most  true,"  he  insisted  with  convincing  simplicity. 

The  tip  of  one  gloved  finger  to  her  chin,  Helena  con- 
sidered remotely. 

"  She  's  very  beautiful,"  she  conceded,  "  and  sweet  and 
fetching  and  hopelessly  plebeian.  She  'd  be  wonderful 
to  have  around,  to  look  at;  but  to  listen  to  ...  Oh  my 
dear !  what  are  you  thinking  of  ?  " 

"  Cut  it,"  Tankerville  advised  from  his  corner.  "  None 
of  your  funeral,  old  lady." 

"  That  consideration  never  yet  hindered  a  Matthias," 
his  wife  retorted  —  "or  a  Tankerville,  either,  as  far  as 
I  Ve  been  gifted  to  observe.  However  "  —  she  turned 
again  to  her  nephew  — "  you  are  presumably  in  love, 
and  I  hope  you  '11  be  happy,  if  ever  you  marry  her.  I 
shan't  interfere  —  don't  be  afraid  —  but  ...  I  could 
murder  Venetia  for  this !  " 

"  Good  night,"  said  Matthias,  offering  his  hand. 

But  instead  of  taking  it,  his  aunt  leaned  forward,  caught 
his  cheeks  between  both  hands,  and  kissed  him  publicly. 

"  Good  night,"  she  murmured  in  a  tragical  voice.  "  And 
Heaven  help  you !  .  .  .  When  is  it  going  to  be  ?  " 

"  We  have  n't  settled  that  yet,"  he  laughed ;  "  but  you 
may  be  sure  I  shan't  marry  until  I  'm  able  to  support  my 
wife  in  a  manner  to  which  she  's  unaccustomed." 


JOAN    THURSDAY  185 

He  returned  to  Joan  with  —  until  lie  recrossed  the 
threshold  of  his  study  —  a  thought  ironic  concerning  the 
inconsistency  of  Helena's  veneration  of  caste  with  her 
union  to  fat,  good-natured,  pretentiously  commonplace 
George  Tankerville.  For  that  matter,  the  Matthias 
dynasty  itself  was  descended  from  a  needy,  out-at- 
elbows  English  adventurer  who  had  one  day  founded  the 
family  fortunes  by  taking  title  to  Manhattan  real  estate 
in  settlement  of  a  gambling  debt  and  on  the  next  had  died 
in  a  duel  —  the  only  act  of  thoughtful  provision  against 
improvidence  registered  in  his  biography.  So  Matthias 
was  n't  much  disposed  to  reverence  his  pedigree :  social 
position,  at  least  as  a  claim  upon  his  consideration,  meant 
little  to  him:  the  only  class  distinctions  he  was  inclined 
to  acknowledge  were  those  created  by  the  intellect  and 
of  the  heart.  In  his  private  world  people  were  either  in- 
telligent or  stupid,  either  kindly  or  (stupidly)  egoistic. 
To  the  first  order,  with  humility  of  soul  he  aspired;  for 
the  other  he  was,  without  condescension,  heartily 
sorry.  .  .  . 

But  there  was  nothing  half  so  analytical  as  this  in  his 
temper  when  he  rejoined  Joan:  only  wonder  and  re- 
joicing and  delight  in  her. 

He  found  her  near  the  door,  tense  and  hesitant,  as 
though  poised  on  the  point  of  imminent  flight.  There 
was  in  her  wide  eyes  a  look  almost  of  consternation;  they 
seemed  to  glow,  shot  with  the  fire  of  her  lambent  thoughts. 
A  doubting  thumb  and  forefinger  clipped  her  chin ;  a  thin 
line  of  exquisite  whiteness  shone  between  her  scarlet  lips. 

Closing  the  door,  he  opened  his  arms.  She  came  to 
them  swiftly  and  confidently.  Doubts  and  fears  vanished 
in  the  joy  of  his  embrace ;  she  was  no  longer  lonely  in  a 
world  unfriendly. 

From  the  eloquent  deeps  of  their  submerged  and  blended 
senses,  words  now  and  again  floated  up  like  bubbles  to  the 
surface  of  consciousness: 

"  You  still  love  me  ? " 


186  JOAN    THURSDAY 

"  I  love  you." 

"  It  was  n't  pity  —  impulse  —  Jack  —  ? " 

"  It  was  —  love.  It  is  love.  It  shall  be  love,  dear  heart, 
forever  and  always."  .  .  . 

"  You  told  her  —  your  aunt  —  we  were  engaged !  " 

"Aren't  we?" 

A  convulsive  tightening  of  her  arms.  .  .  . 

A  whisper  barely  articulate :  "  You  really  .  .  .  want 
me  .  .  .  enough  to  marry  me  ? " 

"  I  love  you." 

"  But  .  .  ." 

"  Is  n't  that  enough  ?  " 

"  But  I  am  —  only  me :  nothing :  a  girl  who  dares  to 
love  you." 

"  Could  any  man  ask  more  ?  " 

"  You  .  .  .  What  will  your  friends  say  ?  .  .  .  You  '11 
be  ashamed  of  me." 

"  Hush !     That 's  treason." 

"  But  you  will  —  you  won't  be  able  to  help  it  —  " 

A  faint,  half-hearted  cry  of  protest:  words  indistin- 
guishable, silenced  by  lips  on  lips ;  a  space  of  quiet.  .  .  . 

"  How  shall  I  make  myself  worthy  of  you  ?  " 

"  Love  me  always." 

"  How  shall  I  dare  to  meet  your  family,  your 
friends  —  ? " 

"  You  will  be  my  wife." 

"  But  that  won't  be  for  a  long  time  .  .  ." 

"  Yes,  we  must  wait  —  be  patient,  Joan."  She  lifted 
her  head,  wondering.  "  But  don't  fear ;  love  will  sus- 
tain us." 

"  I  will  be  patient.  You  '11  have  to  give  me  time  to 
learn  how  not  to  disgrace  you  —  " 

"  What  nonsense !  " 

"  I  mean  it.    I  must  be  somebody.    I  'm  nobody  now." 

"  You  are  my  dearest  love." 

"  I  must  be  more,  to  be  your  wife.  Give  me  time  to 
learn  to  act.  When  I  am  a  success  —  " 


JOAN    THURSDAY  187 

"  No  more  of  that !  "  There  was  definite  resolution  in 
the  interruption.  "  You  must  give  up  all  thought  of  the 
stage." 

"  But  I  want  to  —  " 

"  It 's  not  the  place  for  you  —  for  my  wife  that  is 
to  be." 

"  But  we  're  not  to  be  married  for  a  long  time,  you 
say." 

"  I  'm  a  poor  man,  dear  —  I  have  enough  for  one,  not 
enough  for  two.  It  may  be  only  weeks,  it  may  be  months 
or  years  before  my  work  begins  to  pay." 

"  But  meantime  I  must  live  —  support  myself,  some- 
how." 

"  You  will  leave  that  to  me  ?  " 

"  I  must  do  something  —  be  independent  —  " 

"  Won't  you  leave  it  all  to  me  ?  I  will  arrange  every- 
thing —  " 

"  I  '11  do  whatever  you  wish  me  to." 

"  And  forget  the  stage  —  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  —  I  '11  try,  Jack." 

"  You  must,  dear  one." 

It  was  not  a  time  for  disagreements.  Joan  clung  more 
closely  to  him.  The  issue  languished  in  default,  was  for- 
gotten for  the  time.  .  .  . 

Transports  ebbed:  the  faintest  premonitory  symptoms 
of  a  return  to  something  resembling  sanity  made  their  ap- 
pearance ;  of  a  sudden  Matthias  remembered  the  hour. 

"  Do  you  know,"  he  said  with  tender  gravity,  having 
consulted  his  watch,  "  it 's  after  eleven  ?  " 

"  It  does  n't  seem  possible,"  she  laughed  happily. 

"  And  I  'm  hungry,"  he  announced.    "  Are  n't  you  ?  " 

She  dared  to  be  as  frank  as  he :  "  Famished !  " 

"  Come  along,  then !  Run,  get  your  hat.  It  gives  us 
an  excuse  for  at  least  two  hours  more."  .  .  . 

By  the  time  she  had  repaired  the  damage  this  miracle 
had  wrought  with  her  appearance,  Matthias  had  walked 
to  the  Astor  and  brought  back  a  taxicab.  The  attention 


188  JOAN    THURSDAY 

affected  Joan  with  a  poignant  and  exquisite  sense  of 
happiness. 

It  was  only  her  second  ride  in  a  motor  vehicle.  The 
top  being  down,  they  sat  very  circumspectly  apart;  but 
Matthias  captured  her  hand  and  eye  spoke  to  eye  with 
secret  laughter  of  delight,  each  reading  the  other's  longing 
thought.  The  speed  of  the  cab  and  its  sudden  slackening 
as  it  picked  its  path  down  Broadway,  the  flow  of  cool  air 
against  her  face,  the  swimming  maze  of  lights  through 
which  they  sped,  the  sense  of  luxury  and  protection,  added 
the  last  touch  of  delirious  pleasure  to  Joan's  mood. 

iMatthias  had  chosen  the  cafe  of  "  Old  Martin's,"  at 
Twenty-sixth  Street,  the  first  place  that  suggested  itself 
as  one  where  they  could  sup  without  the  girl  being  made 
to  feel  out  of  place  in  her  modest  workaday  attire ;  but  his 
thoughtfulness  was  misapplied:  Joan  was  exalted  beyond 
such  annoyances;  and  those  feminine  glances  which  she 
detected,  of  pity,  disdain,  and  jealousy,  she  took  compla- 
cently as  envious  tributes  to  her  prettiness  and  her 
conquest. 

From  a  seat  against  the  wall,  in  a  corner,  she  reviewed 
the  other  patrons  of  the  smoke-wreathed  room  with  a 
hauteur  of  spirit  that  would  have  seemed  laughable  had 
it  been  suspected.  She  thought  of  herself  as  the  hand- 
somest woman  there,  and  the  youngest,  of  Matthias  as  the 
most  distinguished  man  and  —  the  luckiest.  The  circum- 
stances of  the  place  and  her  partner  enchanted  her  to 
distraction. 

The  food  Matthias  ordered  she  devoured  heedlessly; 
but  there  was  a  delicious  novelty  in  the  experience  of 
sipping  her  first  glass  of  champagne.  It  was,  for  that 
matter,  the  first  time  she  had  ever  tasted  good  wine,  or 
any  kind  of  alcoholic  drink  other  than  an  occasional  glass 
of  lukewarm  beer,  cheap  and  nasty  to  begin  with  and 
half-stale  at  best,  and  that  poisonous  red  wine  of  the 
Italian  boarding-house  to  which  Charlie  Quard  had  intro- 
duced her.  She  had  never  dreamed  of  anything  so  deli- 


JOAN    THURSDAY  189 

cious  as  this  dry  and  exhilarating  draught  with  its  exotic 
bouquet  and  aromatic  bubbles. 

With  a  glowing  face  and  dancing  eyes  she  nodded  to 
Matthias  over  the  rim  of  her  goblet. 

"  When  we  are  rich,"  she  laughed  softly,  "  I  'm  never 
going  to  drink  anything  else !  " 

He  smiled  quietly,  enjoying  her  enjoyment;  but,  when 
emptied,  the  half-bottle  he  had  ordered  was  not  renewed. 

There  was  without  that  enough  intoxication  in  his  fond- 
ness, in  the  simulacrum  of  gaiety  manufactured  by  the 
lights,  the  life,  the  laughter,  and  in  the  muted,  inter- 
weaving strains  of  music.  Joan  felt  that  she  was  living 
wonderfully  and  intensely,  a  creature  of  an  existence 
transcendent  and  radiant. 

It  was  after  one  when  another  taxicab  whisked  them 
homeward  through  the  quieting  streets.  She  sat  as  close 
as  could  be  to  her  lover  and  would  not  have  objected  on 
the  grounds  of  "  people  looking "  had  he  put  an  arm 
round  her.  Though  he  did  n't,  she  was  not  disappointed, 
sharing  something  of  his  mood  of  sublimely  sufficient  con- 
tentment. But  when  he  bade  her  good  night  at  the  foot  of 
the  stairs  in  the  deserted  and  poorly  lighted  hallway, 
she  gave  herself  to  his  caresses  with  a  passion  and  abandon 
that  startled  and  sobered  Matthias,  and  sent  him  off  to 
his  room  and  bed  in  a  thoughtful  frame  of  mind. 

Lying  awake  in  darkness  until  darkness  was  dimly  tem- 
pered by  the  formless  dusk  that  long  foreruns  the  dawn,  he 
communed  gravely  with  his  troubled  heart. 

"  Things  can't  go  on  this  way  —  as  they  Ve  started. 
There  's  got  to  be  sanity.  ...  It 's  myself  I  Ve  got  to 
watch,  of  course,"  he  said  with  stubborn  loyalty  to  his 
ideal.  "  I  must  n't  forget  I  'm  a  man  —  nine  years  older 
—  nearly  ten.  .  .  .  Why,  she  's  hardly  more  than  a  kid- 
die. .  .  .  She  does  n't  know  .  .  .  I  've  got  to  watch 
myself  .  .  ." 

And  in  her  room,  four  floors  above,  Joan  sat  as  long 
before  her  bureau,  chin  cradled  on  her  slim,  laced  fingers, 


190  JOAN    THURSDAY 

eyeing  intently  the  face  shown  her  by  gaslight  in  the  one 
true  patch  of  the  common,  tarnished  mirror. 

When  at  length  she  rose,  suddenly  conscious  of  a  heavy 
weariness,  she  lingered  yet  another  long  moment  for  one 
last  fond  look. 

"  It 's  true,"  she  told  herself  with  a  little  nod  of  con- 
viction ;  "  I  am  beautiful.  She  said  I  was  ...  he  thinks 
I  am  .  .1  must  be.  ,  ." 


XIX 

FOE  a  long  time  Joan  lay  snug  between  the  sheets,  star- 
ing wide-eyed  into  the  patch  of  lustrous  blue  morning  sky 
framed  by  the  window,  reviewing  this  new  and  wonderful 
adventure  of  her  heart  from  a  point  of  view  remote,  de- 
tached, and  critical.  Thoughts  recurred  that  in  the  excite- 
ment and  ardour  of  the  night  had  been  passed  over  and 
neglected ;  and  from  them  she  derived  a  new,  strange,  and 
intoxicating  sense  of  power. 

Her  first  waking  thought  was  as  her  last  before  sleep- 
ing :  I  am  'beautiful. 

Her  second,  not  /  love  him,  but  He  loves  me. 

And  her  third  grew  out  of  the  second :  /  can  make  him 
do  what  pleases  me. 

Yesterday  a  lowly  supplicant  at  the  shrine  of  love: 
today  Love's  very  self,  adored  and  desired  by  an  erst- 
while divinity  now  humbled  to  the  level  of  humanity ! 

A  fit  of  petulance,  beauty  in  tears,  a  whispered  word 
of  passion:  strange  and  strangely  simple  incantation  to 
have  turned  a  world  upside  down!  How  easily  was  man 
suppled  to  the  spell ! 

The  sense  of  power  ran  like  wine  through  her  being: 
she  felt  herself  invincible,  an  adept  of  love's  alchemy ;  she 
had  surprised  its  secret,  and  now  the  world  of  man's  heart 
lay  open  to  the  practices  of  her  disastrous  art.  For  a  mo- 
ment she  experienced  an  almost  terrifying  intimation  of 
empires  ripe  for  conquest  that  lay  beyond  Matthias;  but 
from  this  she  withdrew  her  troubled  gaze;  nor  would  she 
look  again;  not  yet  .  .  . 

She  considered  his  mad  extravagance  of  last  night  — 
taxicabs,  champagne,  tips!  Was  he,  then,  able  to  afford 


192  JOAN    THURSDAY 

such  expenditures  ?  In  her  understanding  they  went  oddly 
with  his  pretensions  to  decent  poverty.  Or  had  he  merely 
lost  his  head  under  the  influence  of  her  charms  ?  This 
last  theory  pleased  her ;  she  adopted  it  with  reservations : 
the  question  remained  one  to  be  cleared  up. 

He  disapproved  of  a  career  upon  the  stage  for  her  ? 
.  .  .  Joan  smiled  indulgently:  that  matter  would  be  ar- 
ranged in  good  time.  She  meant  to  have  her  way.  .  .  . 

At  a  tap  on  her  door  she  changed  suddenly  from  the 
aloof  egoist  to  a  woman  athrill  before  the  veil  of  por- 
tentous mysteries.  She  sat  up  in  bed,  called  out  to  know 
who  was  knocking,  gave  permission  to  the  chambermaid  to 
enter,  and  received  a  note  in  the  hand  of  Matthias. 

"  Past  twelve  o'clock"  she  read,  "  and  still  no  sign  of 
you,  sweetheart.  I  give  you  thirty  minutes  to  dress  and 
come  to  me.  If  you  dorii,  I  'II  come  for  you.  After 
breakfast,  we  'II  run  out  of  town  for  the  day  —  our  first 
day  together!  MATTHIAS." 

Half  wild  with  delight,  she  hurried  through  her  toilet 
and  ran  down-stairs  to  find  her  lover  waiting  in  the  hall- 
way, watch  in  hand. 

He  closed  it  with  a  snap,  and  made  her  a  quaintly 
ceremonious  bow.  "  In  two  minutes  more  — !  "  he  ob- 
served in  a  tone  of  grave  menace.  "  But  before  we  go 
out,  have  the  kindness  to  step  into  my  humble  study.  I 
have  somewhat  to  say  to  you." 

She  appeared  to  hesitate,  to  be  reluctant  and  pre- 
occupied. 

"  What  about  ?  "  she  demanded  distantly. 

But  her  dancing  eyes  betrayed  her. 

"  Business,"  he  said,  sententious.  His  gesture  indicated 
a  vigilant  universe  of  eavesdroppers.  "  Nobody's  but  our 
own!" 

Nevertheless,  there  was  none  to  spy  upon  them  as  he 
drew  her  gently  by  the  waist,  down  the  hall  and  into  the 
back-parlour.  She  yielded  with  a  charming  diffidence. 

In  his  embrace  the  sense  of  power  slipped  unheeded 


JOAN    THURSDAY  193 

from  her  ken;  returned  the  deep,  obliterating  rapture  of 
overnight.  Lips  that  first  submitted,  soon  gave  in  return, 
then  demanded  .  .  . 

She  clung  heavily  to  him,  a  little  faint  and  breathless 
with  a  vague  and  sweet  and  nameless  longing.  .  .  . 

At  breakfast  in  a  neighbouring  restaurant,  Matthias  dis- 
closed his  plans  for  the  day,  involving  a  motor  trip  down 
along  the  north  shore  of  Long  Island,  dinner  at  Hunting- 
ton,  a  return  by  moonlight.  Joan,  enchanted  by  the  pros- 
pect —  the  sum  of  whose  experience  outside  Manhattan 
Island  was  comprised  in  a  few  trips  to  Coney  Island 
—  consented  with  a  strange  mingling  of  eagerness  and 
misgivings;  the  thought  of  the  cost  troubled  a  conscience 
still  haunted  by  memories  of  last  night's  prodigality. 

"  I  did  n't  know  you  had  an  automobile." 

"  I  have  n't ;   I  'm  chartering  one  for  the  day." 

"  But  .  .  .  but  .  .  .  won't  it  be  awf 'ly  expensive  ?  " 

"  Don't  worry,  dear." 

"  But,  you  know,  you  are  n't  —  rich." 

"  I  'm  a  magnate  of  happiness,  at  all  events :  and  to- 
day is  our  day,  the  first  of  our  love,  sweetheart.  For 
twelve  long  hours  we  're  going  to  forget  everything  but 
our  two  selfish  selves.  Why  fret  about  tomorrow?  It 
always  does  manage  to  take  care  of  itself,  somehow.  And 
frankly,  I  don't  care  to  be  reminded  of  its  existence  today ; 
for  tomorrow  I  work."  .  .  . 

A  day  of  quicksilver  hours  slipping  ever  from  their 
jealous  grasp ;  of  hours  volatile  and  glamorous :  in  Joan's 
half-dazed  consciousness,  a  delectable  pageant  of  scenes, 
sensations  and  emotions  no  sooner  comprehended  than  dis- 
placed by  others  no  less  wonderful  .  .  . 

Abed  long  after  midnight,  visions  besieged  her  bewilder- 
ingly:  a  length  of  dusty  golden  highway  walled  by  green 
forest,  with  a  white  bridge  glaring  in  sunlight  at  the  bot- 
tom of  a  hill ;  the  affrighting  onrush  of  great  motor-cars 
meeting  their  own,  and  the  din  and  dust  of  their  passage ; 
the  bright  harbour  of  Huntington,  blue  and  gold  in  a  frame 


194  JOAN    THURSDAY 

of  gold  and  green,  viewed  from  the  marble  balustrade  of 
the  Chateau  des  Beaux  Arts;  the  wrinkled,  kindly,  com- 
prehending face  of  a  waiter  who  served  them  at  dinner; 
the  look  in  her  lover's  eyes  as  she  repeated,  on  demand, 
guarded  avowals  under  cover  of  the  motor's  rumble;  the 
ardent  face  of  a  boy  who  had  seemed  unable  to  cease 
staring  at  her  in  the  restaurant;  silver  and  purple  of 
the  road  by  night;  wheeling  ranks  of  lights  dotting  the 
desolation  of  suburban  Brooklyn;  the  high-flung  span  of 
Queensboro'  Bridge,  a  web  of  steel  and  concrete  strung 
with  opalescent  globes;  the  glare  of  the  city's  painted 
sky ;  the  endless  pulsing  of  the  motor ;  their  last  caress  on 
parting  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs.  .  .  . 

On  the  morrow  she  went  back  to  her  typewriter  like 
Cinderella  to  her  kitchen.  But  what  work  Matthias  was 
able  to  invent  for  her  was  neither  arduous  nor  urgent; 
she  was  able  to  take  her  time  on  it,  and  wasted  many  an 
hour  in  dreaming.  Her  mind  was,  indeed,  more  engaged 
with  thoughts  of  new  frocks  than  with  the  circumstances 
of  her  love  or  her  services  to  her  lover. 

She  was  to  receive  thenceforward  twenty-five  instead  of 
ten  dollars  a  week.  Matthias  had  experienced  little  diffi- 
culty in  over-ruling  her  faint  protestations:  they  were 
to  be  together  a  great  deal,  he  argued,  and  she  must  be  able 
to  dress  at  least  neatly ;  moreover,  by  requiring  her  prom- 
ise to  marry  him  at  some  future  time  when  his  fortunes 
would  permit,  he  had  in  a  measure  made  her  dependent 
upon  him ;  she  could  n't  reasonably  be  asked  to  wait  for 
long  on  a  bare  pittance. 

His  arguments  were  reinforced  by  one  he  knew  nothing 
of,  a  maxim  culled  from  the  wisdom  of  Miss  Maizie  Dean : 
It  was  up  to  a  girl  to  look  out  for  herself  first,  last,  and 
all  the  time.  The  platitude  had  made  an  ineffaceable  im- 
pression upon  Joan's  sense  of  self-preservation.  And  if 
Matthias  were  able  to  afford  nightly  dinners  for  two  at 
good  restaurants,  in  addition  to  theatre  tickets  several 
times  a  week,  he  ought  to  be  able  to  afford  a  decent 


JOAN    THURSDAY  195 

compensation  to  his  stenographer ;  especially  when  it  was 
his  wish  that  she  refrain  from  attempting  to  earn  more 
money  on  the  stage. 

It  was,  however,  true  that  no  offer  had  come  to  Joan 
of  other  theatrical  work,  and  that  the  issue  of  her  am- 
bition remained  in  abeyance,  a  subject  which  she  did  n't 
care  to  raise  and  which  Matthias,  since  that  first  night, 
had  considered  settled. 

Customarily  they  met  each  evening  about  half-past  six 
at  some  distance  from  their  lodgings :  a  precaution  against 
gossip  on  the  part  of  the  other  inmates  of  the  Maison 
Duprat.  Thence  they  would  go  to  dine  at  some  favourite 
restaurant,  where  food  was  good  and  evening  dress  not 
obligatory  —  the  cafe  of  their  first  supper  by  preference, 
or  else  the  Lafayette,  in  University  Place,  the  Brevoort 
House,  or  one  of  a  few  minor  French  establishments 
upon  which  Matthias  had  conferred  the  approval  of  a 
discriminating  taste.  Thereafter,  if  he  meant  to  work, 
they  would  take  a  taxicab  for  a  brief  whirl  through 
Central  Park  or  up  Riverside  Drive  to  Grant's  Tomb 
and  back.  Or  if  he  considered  attendance  upon  some 
first  representation  important  enough  to  interfere  with 
his  work,  as  forming  part  of  the  education  of  a  student 
of  contemporaneous  drama,  they  would  go  to  a  theatre, 
where  he  always  contrived  to  have  good  but  inconspicu- 
ous seats. 

In  all,  Joan  must  have  attended  with  him  eight  or  nine 
first-nights ;  and  since  Matthias  refused  to  waste  his  time 
on  musical  comedy,  they  witnessed  for  the  most  part  plays 
dealing  with  one  phase  or  another  of  social  life  in  either 
London  or  New  York.  From  these  Joan  derived  an  amount 
of  benefit  which  would  have  surprised  anyone  ignorant 
of  the  quickness  of  perception  and  intelligent  adaptability 
characteristic  of  the  American  girl,  however  humble  her 
origin.  The  poorest  plays  furnished  her  with  material 
for  self-criticism  and  improvement.  As  plays,  indeed, 
she  was  but  vaguely  interested  in  them,  but  as  schools  of 


196  JOAN    THURSDAY 

deportment,  they  held  her  breathlessly  attentive.  She 
never  took  her  gaze  from  the  stage  so.  long  as  there  re- 
mained upon  it  an  actress  portraying,  however  indiffer- 
ently, a  woman  of  any  degree  of  cultivation  whatever. 
Gestures,  postures,  vocal  inflections,  the  character  of  their 
gowns  and  the  manner  in  which  they  contrived  to  impart 
to  them  something  of  their  wearer's  personality,  the  man- 
agement of  a  tea-cup  or  a  fashion  of  shaking  hands:  all 
these  were  registered  and  stored  away  in  the  girl's  memory, 
to  be  recalled  when  alone,  reviewed,  dissected,  modified  to 
fit  her  individually,  practised,  and  eventually  to  be 
adopted  with  varying  discretion  and  success. 

She  who  was  to  be  the  wife  of  a  man  of  position,  was 
determined  that  his  friends  and  associates  should  find  little 
to  censure  in  her  manners.  For  long  Helena  Tankerville 
figured  to  Joan  as  an  impeccable  model  of  tact,  distinction, 
taste,  and  gentlewomanliness.  To  become  as  Helena  was, 
summed  up  the  dearest  aspirations  of  the  girl.  She  began 
to  be  very  guarded  in  her  use  of  English,  eschewed  as  far 
as  her  means  permitted  the  uniform  style  of  costume  to 
which  New  York  women  are  largely  prone,  dressed  her 
hair  differently  and  upon  no  superstructure  other  than  its 
own,  and  spent  long  hours  manicuring  and  observing  the 
minor  niceties  of  the  feminine  toilet. 

Paradoxically,  with  the  obtuseness  characteristic  of  a 
certain  type  of  imaginative  man,  Matthias  appreciated 
and  was  grateful  for  the  improvement  in  his  fiancee  with- 
out realizing  it  objectively;  what  pleased  his  sensitive 
tastes,  he  accepted  as  normal  expressions  of  innate  good- 
breeding;  what  jarred,  he  glossed  with  charity.  It  was 
inconceivable  that  he  should  love  any  woman  but  one 
instinctively  fine:  he  endowed  Joan  with  many  a  grace 
and  many  a  virtue  that  she  did  not  possess;  and  this 
implicit  assertion  of  his,  that  she  was  all  that  the  mistress 
of  his  heart  ought  to  be,  incited  her  to  more  determined 
efforts  to  resemble  all  that  by  birth  and  training  she  was 
not. 


JOAN    THURSDAY  197 

It  was  some  time  before  the  novelty  palled  and  she  grew 
restive  under  the  strain  of  it  all.  .  .  . 

"  I  had  a  talk  with  Hideout  today,"  he  observed  during 
dinner,  on  an  evening  about  a  fortnight  subsequent  to  the 
disbanding  of  "  The  Jade  God  "  company.  "  He  's  dicker- 
ing with  Algerson  —  thinks  the  thing  may  possibly  come 
to  a  deal  before  long." 

"  How  do  you  mean  ? "  Joan  enquired  with  quick 
interest. 

"  Algerson  wants  to  buy  Hideout's  interest  in  the  play 
—  at  a  bargain  to  himself,  of  course.  Hideout  is  holding 
out  for  a  better  offer,  but  he  's  hard  pressed,  and  I  rather 
think  he  '11  close  with  Algerson  within  a  few  days." 

"  Who  's  Algerson  ?  "  Joan  asked,  after  an  interval  de- 
voted to  ransacking  her  memory  for  some  echo  of  that 
name ;  resulting  in  the  conviction  that  she  had  never 
heard  it  before. 

"  He  runs  a  chain  of  stock  companies  out  on  the  Pacific 
Coast,  and  now  he  's  anxious  to  branch  out  into  the  pro- 
ducing business." 

"  And  if  he  gets  '  The  Jade  God  '  —  when  will  he  put 
it  on?" 

"  Can't  say  —  have  n't  seen  him.  I  'm  not  supposed  to 
know  he  's  interested  as  yet ;  though  of  course  they  '11 
have  to  come  to  me  before  the  deal  can  be  ratified." 

"But  you'll  consent?" 

"  Rather !  Especially  if  Algerson  will  take  over  Ride- 
out's  contract  as  it  stands.  It  provides  for  pretty  good 
royalties,  and  as  a  prospective  bridegroom  I  'm  very  much 
interested  in  such  sordid  matters." 

Joan  traced  a  meaningless  pattern  on  the  cloth  with  a 
tine  of  her  fork;  glanced  surreptitiously  at  Matthias; 
remembered  that  toying  with  the  tableware  was  n't  good 
form,  and  quietly  abandoned  the  occupation. 

"  I  wonder  .  .  ."  she  murmured  abstractedly. 

"  You  wonder  what  —  ?  "  Matthias  prompted  when  she 
failed  to  round  out  her  thought. 


198 

She  laughed  uneasily.  "  I  was  just  wondering  if  —  if 
he  gets  the  piece  —  Algerson  would  give  me  a  chance  at 
my  old  part  ?  " 

"  Not  with  my  consent,"  said  Matthias  promptly.  "  You 
know.  I  don't  want  you  to  stick  at  that  game." 

"  But  I  'm  tired  doing  nothing,"  she  pouted  prettily. 

Matthias  shook  his  stubborn  head.  "  Besides,"  he  added 
quickly,  "  Algerson  will  probably  try  the  show  out  in  one 
of  his  stock  houses  before  he  goes  to  the  expense  of  organ- 
izing a  new  and  separate  production.  I  mean,  he  '11  use 
people  already  on  his  pay  roll,  and  not  engage  outsiders 
until  he  knows  pretty  well  whether  he 's  got  a  success  or 
a  failure  on  his  hands." 

"  You  think  he  will  produce  out  West  ?  " 

"  Probably." 

"  And  will  you  have  to  go  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know.  I  shan't  unless  I  get  some  guarantee  of 
expenses.  Although  ...  I  don't  know  .  .  .  perhaps  I 
ought  to.  Wilbrow  and  I  are  the  only  people  who  know 
how  the  thing  ought  to  be  done,  and  Algerson  most  cer- 
tainly won't  pay  what  Wilbrow  asks  for  making  a  pro- 
duction —  and  his  expenses  to  the  Coast  and  back,  besides. 
...  It  would  be  a  shame  to  let  a  valuable  property  go 
smash  for  want  of  intelligent  supervision." 

"  Then  you  may  go,  after  all  ?  " 

"  I  can't  say  until  something  definite  is  arranged.  I  '11 
have  to  think  it  over." 

Joan  sighed. 

A  week  elapsed  before  the  subject  came  up  again. 

Matthias  had  been  out  all  day ;  Joan,  with  no  typing  to 
engage  her,  had  sought  surcease  of  ennui  with  a  book  and 
an  easy  chair  in  the  back-parlour.  But  the  story  was 
badly  chosen  for  her  purpose.  Its  heroine,  like  herself,  had 
in  the  beginning  been  merely  a  girl  of  the  people,  little  if 
any  better  equipped  for  the  struggle  to  the  top :  Joan  could 
see  no  reason  why  she  should  not  rise  with  a  rapidity  as 
wonderful,  given  but  the  chance  denied  her  through  the  un- 
reasonable prejudice  of  her  lover. 


JOAN    THURSDAY  199 

And  presently  the  book  lay  open  and  neglected  in  her 
lap,  while  her  thoughts  engaged  mutinously  with  this  ob- 
struction to  her  desires,  seeking  a  way  to  circumvent  it 
without  imperilling  her  conquest. 

Joan  was  proud  and  sure  of  her  power  over  Matthias, 
but  she  realized  that  in  spite  of  it  she  didn't  as  yet  fill 
his  life;  there  existed  in  his  nature  reticences  her  imagi- 
nation might  not  plumb;  and  until  chance,  or  the  confi- 
dence only  to  be  engendered  through  long,  slow  processes 
of  intimate  association,  should  make  these  known  to  her, 
she  hesitated  to  join  issue  with  his  will. 

And  yet  .  .  .  she  was  continually  restless  and  discon- 
tented. Sometimes  she  felt  that  the  old  order  of  uncer- 
tainty and  stifled  longings  had  been  better  for  her  soul; 
that  she  could  n't  much  longer  endure  the  tension  of  living 
up  to  the  rigorous  standards  of  Matthias  and  his  kind; 
that  she  might  even  be  happier  as  the  object  of  a  passion 
less  honourable  and  honest  than  that  which  he  offered  her. 

But  never  before  this  day  had  she  admitted  so  much  to 
herself,  even  in  her  most  secret  hours  of  egoistic  self- 
communion.  .  .  . 

Matthias  came  in  briskly,  in  a  glow  of  high  spirits, 
shortly  before  sunset;  and  immediately,  as  always,  her 
every  doubt  and  misgiving  vanished  like  mists  in  the  morn- 
ing-glow of  his  love. 

Throwing  hat  and  stick  upon  the  couch,  he  went  directly 
to  her  chair,  knelt  beside  it,  gathered  her  to  him.  She 
yielded  with  a  sedate  yet  warm  tenderness  perhaps  the 
more  sincere  today  because  of  a  conscience  stricken  by 
the  memory  of  her  late  disloyalty  of  thought.  And  some- 
thing of  her  fond  gravity  and  gentleness  penetrated  and 
sobered  his  own  mood.  He  held  her  very  close  for  many 
minutes.  But  when  he  drew  back  at  ann's-length  to  wor- 
ship her  with  his  eyes,  she  turned  her  head  aside  quickly, 
if  not  quickly  enough  to  deceive  him.  He  was  instant  to 
detect  the  glimmer  of  tears  in  her  long  lashes,  the  childish 
tremor  of  her  sweet  lips,  and  again  drew  her  to  him. 


200  JOAN    THURSDAY 

"  My  dearest  one !  "  he  whispered  with  infinite  gentle- 
ness and  solicitude.  "  What  is  it  ?  Tell  me." 

"  Nothing,"  she  breathed  brokenly  in  return.  "  Noth- 
ing —  only  —  I  guess  —  I  'm  a  little  blue  —  lonely  with- 
out you,  dear.  I  'm  afraid  I  need  either  to  be  at  work  or 
—  with  you  always." 

"  Then  be  comforted,  sweetest  girl ;  the  time  won't  be 
long,  now  —  I  believe  in  my  very  soul." 

"  Till  when  —  ? "  She  leaned  back  in  her  chair,  ex- 
amining his  face  with  eyes  that  shone  with  infectious  fire 
of  his  confident  excitement.  "  Till  when  ?  What  do  you 
mean  ?  Something  has  happened !  " 

"  You  're  right,"  he  laughed  exultantly :  "  two  big  things 
have  happened  to  me  today.  Wylie  has  accepted  '  To- 
morrow's People  ' :  we  signed  the  contract  this  afternoon ; 
he 's  to  put  it  on  about  the  first  of  the  year." 

"Oh,  I'm  so  glad!" 

"  But  that  is  n't  all :  Algerson  has  bought  Bideout's 
contract  and  is  to  produce  (  The  Jade  God  '  in  Los  Angeles 
as  soon  as  it  can  be  got  ready." 

"Dearest!" 

There  was  an  interval.  .  .  . 

"  Only,"  he  said  presently,  "  it 's  going  to  mean  a  little 
real  loneliness  for  you,  dear  —  not  more  than  a  few 
weeks  —  " 

"  Why  ?  "  she  demanded  sharply. 

"  Because  I  've  promised  Algerson  to  superintend  the 
rehearsals.  I  could  n't  well  refuse.  You  know  how  much 
it  means  to  us,  dear  heart." 

"  When  do  you  leave  ?  " 

"Monday  —  the  Twentieth  Century  Limited  for  Chi- 
cago, then  on  to  Los  Angeles." 

"  And  you  '11  be  gone,  altogether,  how  long  ?  "  Joan  per- 
sisted tensely. 

"  With  good  luck,  about  a  month.  If  we  strike  a  snag, 
of  course,  I  may  have  to  stop  over  a  week  or  so  longer. 
It 's  hard  to  say." 


JOAN  THURSDAY;         201 

"  Then  I  'm  to  be  left  —  here  —  alone  —  with  nothing 
to  do  but  wait  —  perhaps  more  than  a  month !  " 

"  I  'm  afraid  so,  dear.  It 's  for  both  of  our  sakes.  So 
much  depends  —  " 

"  Jack !  "  Placing  her  hands  on  his  shoulders,  Joan 
held  him  off.  "  Take  me  with  you,"  she  pleaded  earnestly. 

"  Think  a  moment,  sweetheart.  You  must  see  how  im- 
possible it  is.  For  one  thing,  it  would  n't  —  O  it 's  all 
very  well  to  say  '  Conventions  be  hanged !  '  but  —  it 
would  n't  look  right.  We  're  not  married." 

"  Take  me  with  you,  Jack,"  she  repeated  stubbornly. 

He  shook  his  head.  "  And,  fairly  and  squarely,  dear, 
I  can't  afford  it.  I  have  n't  got  enough  money.  Even  if 
we  were  married,  I  'd  have  to  leave  you  here." 

For  a  moment  longer  the  girl  kept  her  hands  upon  his 
shoulders,  exploring  his  face  with  eyes  that  seemed  sud- 
denly to  have  been  robbed  of  much  of  their  girlishness. 
Then :  "  Very  well,"  she  said  coldly,  and  releasing  him,  she 
sat  back  and  averted  her  countenance. 

Matthias  got  up,  distressed  and  perplexed. 

"  You  can't  mean  your  love  won't  stand  the  strain 
of  a  few  weeks'  separation,  Joan !  " 

She  made  no  answer.  He  shrugged,  moved  to  the  work- 
table,  found  a  cigarette  and  lighted  it. 

"  Surely  you  can  wait  that  long  —  " 

"  I  '11  do  my  best,"  she  interrupted  almost  impatiently. 
"  If  it  can't  be,  it  can't.  So  don't  let 's  talk  any  more 
about  it.". 

"  I  'd  give  a  good  deal  to  be  able  to  arrange  things  the 
way  you  wish,"  he  grumbled.  "  But  I  don't  see  .  .  ." 

She  was  silent.  He  paced  the  worn  path  on  the  carpet 
for  a  few  moments,  then  turned  aside  to  his  desk  and  stood 
idly  examining  a  little  collection  of  correspondence  which 
had  been  delivered  in  his  absence.  One  or  two  letters  he 
opened,  skimmed  through  without  paying  much  atten- 
tion to  their  contents,  and  tossed  aside.  A  third  brought 
from  him  an  exclamation :  "  Hello !  " 


202  JOAN    THURSDAY 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  Joan  enquired  indifferently. 

"  What  do  you  say  to  running  down  to  Tanglewood  over 
Sunday?" 

"  Tanglewood  ? " 

"My  Aunt  Helena's  home  —  down  at  Port  Madison, 
Long  Island,  you  know.  She  has  just  written,  asking  us. 
It  would  be  rather  fun.  Would  you  like  to  go  ?  " 

A  blunt  negative  was  barely  suppressed.  Curiosity 
made  Joan  hesitate,  and  temporarily  to  forego  further 
petulance. 

"  I  've  got  nothing  to  wear,"  she  doubted  uncertainly. 

"  Rot :  you  don't  need  anything  but  shirtwaists  and 
skirts.  There  won't  be  anybody  but  you,  Helena,  George 
Tankerville  and  myself."  Matthias  leaned  over  the  back 
of  her  chair  and  caught  her  face  between  his  hands.  "  It  '11 
be  a  splendid  holiday  for  us,  before  I  start.  Say  yes  — 
sweetheart !  " 

Joan  turned  up  her  face  to  his,  lifting  her  arms  to  en- 
circle his  neck.  She  nodded  consent  as  he  bent  his  lips 
to  hers. 


XX 

AT  times  Joan  was  more  than  half  inclined  to  doubt 
the  reality  of  some  of  those  unique  phases  of  existence  to 
which  her  love  affair  introduced  her.  Some  experiences 
seemed  beyond  belief,  even  to  an  imagination  stimulated 
by  inordinate  ambition  and  further  excited  by  incessant 
novel-reading  and  theatre-going. 

On  the  Friday  morning  following  the  receipt  of  Helena's 
invitation  she  went  shopping,  squandering  upwards  of 
three  weeks'  savings  with  that  delicious  abandonment  to 
extravagance  which  is  possible  only  to  a  woman  of  su- 
premely confident  tomorrows.  The  hundreds  she  was  in 
subsequent  days  to  disburse  as  thoughtlessly  never  afforded 
her  one-half  the  pleasure  that  accompanied  the  expenditure 
of  those  seventy  hoarded  dollars.  (For  aside  from  the  rent 
of  her  room,  her  association  with  Matthias  had  spared  her 
nearly  every  other  expense  of  daily  life.) 

Among  other  things,  she  purchased  for  twenty-five  dol- 
lars a  simple  evening  frock  eminently  adapted  to  her  re- 
quirements. A  tolerably  faithful  copy  of  a  foreign  model, 
it  had  been  designed  to  fetch  a  much  higher  price  than 
that  at  which  Joan  was  able  to  acquire  it  at  an  end-of-the- 
season  bargain  sale.  She  tried  it  on  before  deciding,  and 
had  the  testimony  of  the  department  store  mirrors  that  it 
was  wonderfully  becoming  to  her  years  and  type  of  beauty. 
And  it  was  the  only  garment  of  its  kind  that  she  had  ever 
owned. 

As  she  hurried,  tardily,  to  keep  an  appointment  with 
Matthias  for  lunch  at  Martin's,  she  told  herself  that  she 
would  never  know  greater  happiness.  She  could  not  rid 
her  mind  of  that  wonderful  frock  and  the  figure  she  had 
cut  in  it,  posing  in  the  dressing-room. 


204  JOAN    THURSDAY 

But  after  luncheon  —  over  which  they  lingered  until 
they  were  quite  alone  in  the  eastern  dining-room  —  with 
some  hesitation,  and  having  assured  himself  that  there  was 
not  even  a  waiter  near  at  hand,  Matthias  fumbled  in  one 
of  his  waistcoat  pockets,  produced  a  small  leather-covered 
case,  and  passed  it  across  the  table. 

"  I  'd  meant  to  keep  this  till  we  got  home,"  he  said  with 
an  awkward  smile.  "  But  I  don't  think  I  can  wait.  .  .  ." 

Joan  opened  the  box  —  and  drew  the  longest  breath  of 
her  life.  Her  heart  seemed  to  leap  and  then  stand  stock- 
still  for  a  full  minute  before  she  grasped  the  magnificence 
of  his  present :  her  engagement  ring ! 

Then  and  there  the  girl  lost  all  touch  with  the  tough 
verities  of  life;  and  throughout  the  day  and  until  she 
lost  consciousness  in  bed  that  night,  a  sensual  enchant- 
ment held  dominion  over  all  her  being.  .  .  . 

Nor  was  the  great  adventure  of  the  visit  to  Tanglewood 
of  a  nature  calculated  to  dissipate  that  glamour  —  save, 
perhaps,  in  one  untoward  circumstance  which,  wholly  un- 
foreseen, could  not  have  been  provided  against. 

A  woman  less  shrewd  and  intelligent  than  Helena 
Tankerville,  and  one  as  violently  opposed  to  the  match, 
might  have  planned  that  short  week-end  visit  to  influence 
and  discourage  the  girl  rather  than  Matthias.  But  Helena 
knew  that  contrast  would  have  the  desired  effect  only 
upon  the  man;  to  whom  its  significance  would  be  in  in- 
verse ratio  to  the  emphasis  lent  it.  So  with  infinite  tact 
and  thoughtfulness  Joan's  way  was  made  smooth  for  her 
from  the  moment  she  alighted  from  the  train  until  the 
moment  of  her  leave-taking;  and  this  without  the  least 
tangible  suggestion  that  any  especial  consideration  was 
being  shewn  her.  The  smallness  of  the  party  sanctioned 
informality;  and  George  Tankerville's  obtuse  kindness 
of  heart  (which  permitted  him  to  see  nothing  in  the 
stratagems  of  his  wife  other  than  a  desire  to  put  the  girl 
completely  at  her  ease)  facilitated  matters  immensely. 

Joan  was  spared  the  embarrassment  of  a  maid  —  was, 


JOAN    THURSDAY  205 

indeed,  given  no  reason  to  believe  there  were  any  such 
servants  attached  to  the  establishment.  Suffered  to  unpack 
her  modest  effects  and  dispose  of  them  herself,  she  re- 
ceived at  Helena's  hands  the  indispensable  service  of 
"  hooking-up."  And  her  unpretentious,  pretty  frock  was 
by  no  means  overshadowed  by  Helena's  or  by  the  uncere- 
monious dinner  jackets  of  the  men;  while  the  simplicity 
of  the  evening  meal  put  her  thoroughly  at  her  ease,  whose 
recently  acquired  but  rather  extensive  acquaintance  with 
New  York  restaurant  ways  and  waiters  robbed  the  atten- 
tions of  a  butler  of  their  terrors. 

Nor  was  it,  possibly,  altogether  a  matter  of  chance  that 
neighbouring  friends  telephoned  an  after-dinner  invita- 
tion to  Helena  and  Tankerville  to  run  over  and  make 
up  a  table  at  auction:  so  that  Joan  was  left  alone  with 
her  lover  to  become  acquainted  with  and  at  home  among 
the  charms  of  Tanglewood.  .  .  . 

But  it  was  n't  until  the  first  hours  of  a  still  and  splen- 
did September  Sunday  that  her  sense  of  wonder  was  quite 
ravished  by  the  place:  its  foreign  and  luxurious  atmos- 
phere, the  half-wild  loveliness  of  its  grounds,  the  per- 
fection of  its  appointments  and  the  uniquity  of  its 
location.  Then  the  sense  of  unreality  resumed  full  sway 
over  her  perceptions:  she  seemed  to  move  and  have  her 
being  in  a  strange,  new  world  of  rare  and  iridescent 
witchery.  And  Helena  was  at  pains  to  leave  her  no  time 
for  doubts  or  analysis.  They  motored  in  the  morning 
to  the  South  Shore  and  back,  and  after  luncheon  took 
the  Enchantress  for  a  short  spin  up  the  Sound,  returning 
for  tea  upon  the  terrace.  .  .  . 

Tankerville  and  Matthias  were  wrangling  amiably  about 
the  least  comfortless  routes  overland  to  the  Pacific; 
Helena,  with  binoculars  at  the  balustrade,  was  simulating 
an  extravagant  interest  in  the  manoeuvres  of  two  small 
yachts  far  in  the  distance  (and,  in  the  breathing-space 
thus  cunningly  contrived,  wildly  ransacking  a  rather 
extensive  fund  of  resource  for  some  subject  which  might 


206  JOAN    THURSDAY 

prove  a  common  ground  of  interest  between  herself  and 
her  guest)  and  Joan,  in  the  depths  of  a  basket-chair, 
while  seeming  smilingly  to  attend  to  the  light  banter  of 
the  men,  was  deeply  preoccupied  in  consideration  of  her 
extraordinary  sensation  of  comfort  and  security  in  this 
exotic  environment.  She  was  deliciously  flattered  by 
appreciation  of  her  own  ease  and  adaptability.  The  con- 
clusion seemed  inevitable  that,  somehow,  strangely,  Nature 
had  meant  her  for  just  such  an  existence  as  this. 

The  terrace  was  aflood  with  the  golden  glow  of  the 
westering  sun  —  the  season  so  far  advanced  that  there 
was  no  discomfort  in  its  warmth.  The  Sound  shone  like 
a  sapphire,  still  and  vast,  and  the  cup  of  the  skies  bending 
over  it  was  flawless  sapphire  banded  at  its  rim  with  an 
exquisite  shade  of  amethyst.  Ashore,  the  wooded  slopes 
were  all  aflame  in  the  mortal  passion  of  Indian  summer. 

In  the  stirless,  suave,  and  aromatic  air  hung  an  im- 
palpable yet  ineluctable  hint  of  melancholy.  .  .  . 

From  landward,  with  unusual  resonance  in  the  deep 
quiet  of  that  hour,  sounded  the  long,  dull,  whining  purr 
of  a  motor-car. 

Helena  lowered  the  glasses,  turned  an  ear  to  the  sound, 
and  came  slowly  back  to  the  tea-table  and  Joan.  Her 
faint  smile,  together  with  a  slight  elevation  of  her  deli- 
cately darkened  brows,  indicated  surprise. 

Engrossed  in  their  argument,  Matthias  and  Tankerville 
gave  no  heed  to  the  threatened  visitation. 

JResentfully,  Joan  detached  her  attention  from  the  dia- 
mond Matthias  had  given  her,  and  at  discretion  tossed 
aside  a  cigarette  which  she  had  been  pretending  to  like 
because  Helena  smoked  quite  openly,  and  it  was  conse- 
quently the  smart  thing  to  do. 

Undoubtedly  the  car  was  stopping  on  the  drive.  Helena 
moved  a  few  paces  toward  the  house,  paused,  waited.  A 
woman's  laugh  with  an  accent  of  cheerful  excitement 
came  to  them.  Joan  saw  Helena  start  and  noticed  Mat- 
thias break  off  a  sentence  in  the  middle  and  swing  round 


JOAN    THURSDAY  207 

in  his  chair.  Immediately  a  woman  ran  through  the 
doorway  to  the  terrace,  a  light  dust-wrap  streaming  from 
her  shoulders.  A  man  followed,  but  at  the  time  Joan 
hardly  noticed  him.  The  woman  absorbed  all  her  interest, 
even  though  it  was  an  interest  compounded  of  jealousy 
and  hostility.  She  was  unquestionably  the  loveliest  crea- 
ture Joan  had  ever  seen.  Without  moving,  but  staring, 
the  girl  sat  transfixed  with  distrust  and  poignant  envy. 

With  a  cry  of  wonder  —  "  Venetia !  "  —  Helena  ran 
to  greet  these  unpresaged  guests. 

Meeting,  the  two  women  indulged  in  an  embrace  almost 
theatrically  perfunctory.  The  commonplaces  of  such 
situations  were  breathlessly  exchanged.  Then  Helena,  dis- 
engaging, turned  to  the  man  and  extended  a  hand. 

"  Well,  Mr.  Marbridge  ...  !  "  she  cried  with  a  light 
note  of  semi-reproof  in  her  laughter. 

At  this,  with  a  brightening  smile,  Marbridge  bent 
over  her  hand,  saying  something  indistinguishable  to 
Joan. 

She  was  watching  the  meeting  between  Matthias  and 
Venetia  Marbridge. 

He  held  both  her  hands,  and  she  permitted  him  to 
retain  them,  for  a  longer  moment  of  silent  greeting  than 
Joan  thought  necessary.  But  this  circumstance  alone 
betrayed  whatever  constraint  was  felt  by  either.  A  smile, 
vague  and  perhaps  not  lacking  a  thought  of  tender  sadness, 
touched  the  lips  and  eyes  of  Venetia.  Matthias  returned 
his  twisted  and  indefinitely  apologetic  grin. 

"  More  than  ever  charming,  Venetia !  " 

"  Thank  you,  Jack." 

If  there  were  any  hint  of  challenge  in  her  tone  or  her 
straightforward  eyes,  Joan  did  n't  detect  it. 

George  Tankerville  submitted  with  open  resignation  to 
the  embrace  of  his  sister. 

"  I  suppose  I  Ve  got  to  stand  for  this,"  he  observed 
with  philosophy.  "  Do  you  mean  me  to  infer  that  you  're 
humble  and  contrite  ?  " 


208  JOAN    THURSDAY 

"  ~Not  in  the  least,"  Venetia  retorted  defiantly. 

"  Oh,  very  well,"  said  he.  "  That  being  the  case,  I 
extend  to  you  my  belated  blessing.  How  did  you  leave 
things  on  the  other  side  ? " 

"  Much  as  usual  —  and  by  steamer." 

"  When  'd  you  get  back  ?  " 

"  Last  Monday  .  .  ." 

Venetia  became  openly  aware  of  Joan.  Matthias 
interposed. 

"  Miss  Thursday  —  my  fiancee.  Joan,  this  is  Mrs. 
Marbridge." 

"Truly?" 

The  shock  told;  she  had  been  playing  off  very  deftly 
a  painful  contretemps,  but  this  announcement  dashed 
Venetia.  Momentarily  she  hesitated,  scarlet  lips  apart 
but  inarticulate,  widening  eyes  of  violet  a  shade  darker, 
with  —  if  possible  —  a  pallor  deeper  even  than  that  most 
striking  attribute  of  her  beauty.  But  the  check  could 
have  been  apparent  only  to  the  initiate  or  to  a  strongly 
intuitive  intelligence. 

"  I  am  so  glad !  "  she  cried  with  sincerity  —  "  so  glad 
for  both  of  you !  "  Impulsively  she  caught  Joan's  hands, 
drew  the  girl  to  her  —  "  May  I,  my  dear  ?  We  're  to  be 
great  friends,  you  know !  "  —  kissed  her ;  then  swinging 
round  —  "  Vincent !  "  she  called  gaily.  "  Such  news ! 
Do  come  here  immediately !  " 

Marbridge  showed  a  face  strongly  marked  with  the 
enquiry  of  his  heavy,  lifting  eyebrows.  His  glance  com- 
prehended Joan  with  kindling  interest.  With  Helena  he 
approached,  his  heavy  body  rolling  a  little  in  spite  of  the 
elasticity  of  his  stride. 

"  My  husband,  Vincent  Marbridge.  Vincent,  this  is 
Joan  Thursday.  She  's  engaged  to  Jack  Matthias.  Is  n't 
it  wonderful?  And  aren't  they  both  fortunate?  And 
is  n't  she  pretty  ?  " 

Marbridge's  unctuous  and  intimate  smile  accompanied 
his  reply :  "  Yes  to  all  —  twice  yes  to  your  last  question." 


Miss  Thursday  —  my  fiancee.     Joan,  this  is  Mrs.  Marbridge." 

Page  208 


JOAN    THURSDAY  209 

His  warm  strong  hand  closed  over  Joan's  diffident  fingers. 
"  My  heartiest  congratulations  to  you  both.  .  .  .  Ah, 
Mr.  Matthias,  how  are  you  ?  So  we  meet  again  —  at 
Tanglewood !  " 

The  hands  of  the  two  men  touched  and  fell  apart. 
But  this  clue  was  wasted  upon  Joan,  who  stood  silently 
abashed  and  sullen  with  consciousness  of  her  own  inept 
awkwardness  as  contrasted  with  the  amiable  aplomb  of 
these  people  with  whom  good  breeding  was  a  cult,  the 
practice  of  the  art  of  self-possession  its  primary  rite. 

To  Marbridge  she  stammered :  "  Pleased  to  meet  you." 
And  immediately  felt  her  face  burning  and  as  if  she  could 
faint  for  sheer  mortification. 

It  was  Helena  who,  pitiful  for  the  gaucherie  of  the 
girl,  saved  the  situation  by  raising  the  issue  of  tea.  Vene- 
tia  demurred:  they  were,  it  seemed,  visiting  friends  in 
Southampton;  had  driven  over  only  for  a  call  of  a  mo- 
ment; would  be  late  for  dinner  if  they  tarried.  But 
Marbridge  settled  the  question  by  dropping  solidly  into 
a  chair  and  announcing  that  there  he  was  and  there  would 
stay  pending  either  tea  or  a  highball.  Venetia,  unable 
to  disguise  a  flush  of  resentment,  showed  her  back  to  her 
husband  and  devoted  herself  to  George  Tankerville.  As 
Helena  summoned  a  servant,  Marbridge  hitched  his  chair 
closer  and  inaugurated  a  rather  one-sided  conversation 
with  Joan. 

Again  in  her  basket-chair,  knees  daintily  crossed  in 
imitation  of  a  pose  mentally  photographed  from  the  stage, 
Joan  experienced  renewed  consciousness  of  her  attractions, 
and  with  it  regained  a  little  ease.  It  could  scarcely  be 
otherwise  under  the  wondering  regard  that  Marbridge  bent 
upon  the  girl."  His  admiration  was  unconcealed,  and  to 
Joan  at  first  the  sweeter  since  it  was  diverted  from  his 
wife. 

But  insensibly  the  situation  began  to  affect  her  less 
pleasantly.  She  grew  sensitive  to  an  effect  of  strain  in 
the  atmosphere,  made  up  in  equal  parts  of  Venetia's 


210  JOAN    THURSDAY 

indignation,  Matthias's  annoyance,  Helena's  suave  but 
quite  fruitless  efforts  to  interpose  and  distract  the  interest 
of  Marbridge  to  herself. 

And  there  was  a  confusing  and  disturbing  element  of 
familiar  and  personal  significance  in  the  man's  unde- 
viating  and  brazen  stare.  Truly,  in  the  older  sense  of 
the  word,  impudent,  it  hinted  an  understanding  so  com- 
plete as  to  be  almost  shameful  —  worse,  it  educed  a  real 
if  unspoken  response  from  the  girl;  unwillingly  she 
admitted  the  existence  of  a  bond  of  sympathy  between 
herself  and  this  man  whom  she  had  never  seen  before, 
a  feeling  more  true  and  intimate  than  that  which  her 
association  with  Matthias  had  inspired,  than  any  she  had 
ever  known.  For  a  time  she  fought  against  this  im- 
pression, in  a  bewilderment  that  evoked  from  her  only 
witless  and  hesitant  responses.  Then  suddenly  encoun- 
tering his  eyes  —  actually  against  her  will  —  she  was 
stricken  dumb  and  breathless  by  comprehension  of  their 
intent;  in  effect,  they  stripped  her:  bodily  and  mentally 
they  made  her  naked  to  this  man. 

Nor  was  this  the  sum:  for  the  merest  fraction  of  a 
moment  Joan  felt  herself  answering:  in  her  bosom  a 
strange  oppression,  strangely  troubling  and  sweet;  in 
her  own  eyes  a  kindling  light,  sympathetic,  shame- 
less. .  .  . 

Instantly  quenched:  distress  and  affronted  modesty 
incarnadined  her  face,  veiled  her  eyes.  Almost  uncon- 
sciously she  turned  away.  Indistinctly  she  saw  the  white 
face  of  Venetia,  set  and  hard,  with  a  scornful  lip  for 
her  husband.  Shifting  to  view  the  object  of  his  admira- 
tion, it  showed  no  change  of  expression.  Her  voice  cut 
incisively  through  his  lazy,  drawling  accents. 

"  This  is  quite  impossible,"  she  said  coolly,  consulting 
a  jewelled  watch  on  her  slender,  gloved  wrist.  "  If  we 
stay  another  instant  we  shall  be  unforgivably  late.  But  " 
—  to  Helena  —  "  thank  you  so  much,  dear,  for  wanting 
us  to  stop.  .  .  .  Vincent,  I  am  going." 


JOAN    THURSDAY  211 

She  moved  slowly  toward  the  house.  Marbridge  kept 
his  seat. 

"  .Nonsense !  "  he  expostulated.  "  Plenty  of  time. 
Tea  's  just  coming.  And  I  'm  dying  the  death  of  a  dog 
with  thirst." 

"  I  am  going,"  Venetia  repeated  in  an  uninflected  voice. 

His  dark  face  darkening,  Marbridge  glanced  to  Helena, 
to  Tankerville,  ignored  Matthias,  looked  back  to  Joan: 
gaining  as  little  encouragement  from  her,  as  from  his 
host  and  hostess,  since  she  dared  not  again  meet  his 
gaze.  With  a  movement  of  his  heavy  shoulders  and  a 
chuckle  he  heaved  himself  out  of  the  chair. 

"  Oh,  all  right,"  he  called  indulgently  to  his  wife : 
"  coming !  .  .  .  All  women  are  crazy,  anyhow,"  he  con- 
fided to  the  others.  "  You  've  got  to  let  'em  have  their 
own  way.  So  —  good  night.  Hope  I  '11  have  the  pleasure 
of  seeing  you-all  soon  again." 

He  extended  a  hand  to  Helena  —  who  gave  him  cool 
fingertips  —  and  paused  before  Joan. 

"  Au  revoir,  Miss  Thursday  .  .  ." 

The  girl  was  unconscious  of  the  proffered  hand.  Her 
eyes  averted,  she  murmured  a  good  night. 

His  smile  broadening,  Marbridge  turned  to  Matthias; 
received  from  him  a  look  that  was  as  good  as  a  kick,  gave 
back  a  grin  of  graceless  effrontery;  and  swinging,  linked 
arms  with  Tankerville. 

"  Come  along,  George  —  take  a  look  at  our  new  car. 
She  's  a  wonder !  " 

Civilly  playing  his  part,  Tankerville  submitted. 

They  disappeared  —  Marbridge  gabbling  cheerfully  — 
into  the  house.  Joan  uncurtained  her  eyes.  Her  lover, 
with  a  face  of  thunder,  was  looking  toward  his  aunt ;  who 
made  a  slight  negative  motion  of  her  head,  with  an 
admonitory  flutter  of  one  hand:  a  servant  with  a  tray 
was  drawing  near.  Matthias  answered  her  with  a  gesture 
of  controlled  wrath ;  turned  to  the  balustrade ;  stood  there 
staring  straight  into  the  angry  sunset  glow. 


212  JOAN    THURSDAY 

On  the  drive  a  motor  snorted,  snored,  drew  away  with 
a  whine  diminuendo.  .  .  . 

Throughout  the  remainder  of  Joan's  visit  the  incident 
was  not  once  referred  to.  But  it  had  had  its  curious  and 
disturbing  effect  upon  the  girl.  She  remembered  it  all 
very  vividly,  reviewed  it  with  insatiable  inquisitiveness. 
From  this  she  derived  a  feeling,  which  she  resented,  of 
having  witnessed  a  scene  fraught  with  significance  in- 
decipherable to  her. 


XXI 

A  LITTLE  after  the  hour  of  four  on  Monday  afternoon, 
Joan  emerged  from  that  riotous  meander  of  hideous 
wooden  galleries,  ramps,  passages,  sheds,  and  vast  echoing 
caves  of  gloom,  which  in  those  days  encumbered  the  site 
of  the  new  Grand  Central  Station ;  and  with  a  long  breath 
of  relief  turned  westward  on  Forty-second  Street. 

She  walked  slowly  and  without  definite  aim;  yet  she 
had  never  felt  so  keenly  the  quickness  and  joy  of  being 
alive.  Her  idle  fancy  invested  with  a  true  if  formless 
symbolism  her  escape  from  that  amazing  labyrinth  of 
shadows  to  the  clear,  sweet  sunlight  of  the  clamorous, 
busy  street:  as  if  she  had  eluded  and  cast  off  convention 
and  formality,  the  constraint  of  a  settled  future  and  the 
strain  of  aspirations  to  be  other  than  as  Nature  had 
fashioned  her;  and  was  free  again  of  the  enchanting 
ease  of  being  simply  herself. 

She  had  within  five  minutes  said  good-bye  to  her  be- 
trothed; her  lips  were  yet  warm  with  their  parting  kiss, 
her  eyes  still  moist  —  and  so,  the  more  bewitching  — 
with  the  facile  tears  through  which  she  had  watched  his 
train  draw  out  of  the  station. 

He  was  not  to  be  back  within  a  month ;  more  probably 
his  return  would  not  occur  within  five  or  six  weeks.  .  .  . 

She  was  contrarily  possessed  by  two  opposed  humours: 
one  approximately  saturated  with  an  exquisite  melan- 
choly and  a  sense  of  heroic  emotions  adequately  expe- 
rienced; and  the  other,  of  freedom  untrammelled  by  re- 
strictions of  any  sort. 

Overruling  her  faint-hearted  protests,  Matthias  had 
left  her  the  sum  of  six  weeks'  wages  (or  allowance)  in 


214  JOAN    THURSDAY 

advance,  by  way  of  provision  against  emergencies  and 
delays.  Joan  had  this  magnificent  sum  of  one  hundred 
and  fifty  dollars  intact  in  her  pocket-book:  more  money 
than  she  had  ever  —  at  least,  seriously  —  dreamed  of 
possessing  at  one  time.  Temporarily  it  represented  to 
her  imagination,  level-headed  as  she  ordinarily  was  in 
consideration  of  money  matters,  wealth  almost  incalcu- 
lable. It  thrilled  her  tremendously  to  contemplate  this 
tangible  proof  of  her  lover's  unquestioning  trust  and  gen- 
erosity —  and  at  the  same  time  it  irked  her  with  gnaw- 
ing doubts  of  her  worthiness.  For  continually  the  knowl- 
edge skulked  in  the  dark  backwards  of  her  consciousness 
that  only  lack  of  opportunity  restrained  her  from  active 
disloyalty  to  his  prejudices. 

Though  she  had  disguised  it  from  him,  and  even  in 
some  measure  from  herself,  she  knew  that  love  had  not 
quenched  but  had  quickened  her  ambition  for  the  stage. 
To  be  desired  by  one  man  only  stimulated  her  longing 
to  be  desired  inaccessibly  —  beyond  the  impregnable  bar- 
rier of  footlights  —  by  all  men. 

She  wondered  how  far  her  strength  and  constancy 
would  serve  her  to  resist,  were  opportunity  to  come  her 
way  during  the  absence  of  Matthias,  when  distance 
should  have  sapped  the  strength  of  his  influence  and  lone- 
liness had  lent  an  accent  to  her  need  for  occupation  and 
companionship. 

Furtively  she  closed  her  left  hand,  until  she  could  feel 
the  diamond  in  his  ring,  turned  in  toward  the  palm  be- 
neath her  glove:  as  if  it  were  a  talisman.  .  .  . 

Turning  north  on  Broadway,  she  breasted  the  full 
current  of  the  late  afternoon  promenade.  Where  the 
subway  kiosks  encroach  upon  the  sidewalk,  in  front  of 
what  had  been  Shanley's  restaurant,  there  was  a  distinct 
congestion  of  footfarers:  Joan  was  obliged  to  move  more 
slowly,  crowded  from  behind,  close  on  the  heels  of  those 
in  front,  elbowed  by  pedestrians  bound  the  opposite  way. 

Abruptly  she  caught  sight  of  Wilbrow,   approaching. 


JOAN    THURSDAY  215 

Almost  at  the  same  instant  he  saw  her.  Momentarily  his 
eyes  clouded  with  an  effort  of  memory;  then  he  placed 
her,  his  lantern  cheeks  widened  with  an  ironic  grin,  and 
he  lifted  his  hat  with  elaborate  ceremony.  Joan  flushed 
slightly,  smiled  brightly  in  response,  and  tossed  her  head 
with  a  spirited  suggestion  of  good-humoured  tolerance. 
In  another  moment,  wondering  why  she  had  done  this, 
she  realized  that  it  had  been  due  simply  to  a  subconscious 
valuation  of  the  man's  interest,  in  the  event  she  should 
ever  again  decide  to  try  her  luck  on  the  stage.  .  .  . 

Crossing  at  Forty-third  Street,  she  turned  again  north 
on  the  sidewalk  in  front  of  a  building  given  over  almost 
entirely  to  tHe  offices  of  theatrical  businesses:  a  sidewalk 
darkened  the  year  round  with  groups  of  actors  sociably 
"  resting." 

One  of  these  groups,  as  Joan  drew  near,  broke  up  on 
the  urgent  suggestion  of  a  special  policeman  detailed  for 
the  purpose ;  and  a  member  of  it,  swinging  with  a  laugh 
to  "  move  on,"  stopped  short  to  escape  collision  with  the 
girl.  Then  he  laughed  again  in  the  friendliest  fashion, 
and  offered  his  hand.  She  looked  up  into  the  face  of 
Charlie  Quard. 

"  Well !  "  he  cried  heartily,  "  I  always  was  a  lucky 
guy !  I  Ve  been  thinking  about  you  all  day  —  wondering 
what  'd  become  of  you." 

Joan  smiled  and  shook  hands.  "  I  guess  it  was  n't 
worrying  you  much,"  she  retorted.  "  If  you  'd  wanted  to, 
you  knew  where  to  find  me." 

Quard  needed  no  more  encouragement.  Promptly 
ranging  alongside  and  falling  into  step :  "  That 's  just 
it,"  he  argued ;  "  I  knew  where  to  start  looking  for  you, 
all  right,  but  I  was  kinda  afraid  you  might  be  in  when 
I  called,  and  did  n't  know  whether  you  'd  snap  my  head 
off  or  not." 

"  That 's  likely,"  the  girl  countered  amiably.  There 
was  a  distinctly  agreeable  sensation  to  be  derived  from  this 
association  with  one  upon  whom  she  could  impose  her 


216  JOAN    THURSDAY 

private  estimate  of  herself.  "  What  made  you  want  to 
see  me  all  of  a  sudden  ? " 

"  Then  you  ain't  sore  on  me  ? " 

"  What  for  ?  "  she  evaded  transparently. 

"  Oh,  you  know  what  for,  all  right.  I  'm  sore  enough 
on  myself  not  to  want  to  talk  about  it." 

"  Well,"  said  Joan  indifferently,  "  I  guess  it 's  none 
of  my  business  if  you  're  such  a  rummy  you  can't  hold 
onto  a  job.  Only,  of  course,  I  don't  have  to  stand  for 
that  sort  of  foolishness  more  than  once." 

"  You  said  something  then,  all  right,"  Quard  approved 
humbly.  "  I  can't  blame  you  for  feeling  that  way  about 
it.  But  le'  me  tell  you  an  honest  fact:  I  ain't  touched 
a  drop  of  anything  stronger'n  buttermilk  since  that  night 
—  so  help  me  Klaw  and  Erlanger !  " 

"Why?" 

"  Well,  I  guess  I  must  've  took  a  tumble  to  myself. 
Anyhow,  when  I  got  over  the  katzen jammer  thing,  I 
thought  it  all  out  and  made  up  my  mind  it  was  up  to 
me  to  behave  for  the  balance  of  my  sentence." 

"  Is  that  so  ? "  Joan  asked,  pausing  definitely  on  the 
corner  at  Forty-fifth  Street. 

"  I  know  I  can,"  Quard  asserted  convincingly.  "  Be- 
lieve me,  Joan,  I  hate  the  stuff !  I  'd  as  lief  stake  myself 
to  a  slug  of  sulphuric.  No,  on  the  level :  I  'm  booked  for 
the  water- tank  route  for  the  rest  of  my  natural." 

"  1 'm  awful  glad,"  observed  the  girl  maliciously. 
"  It 's  so  nice  for  your  mother.  Well  .  .  .  g'daf  ter- 
noon !  " 

"  Hold  on !  "  Quard  protested.  "  I  '11  walk  down  to  the 
house  with  you." 

"  No,  you  won't,"  she  returned  promptly. 

"Why  not?" 

"  I  don't  want  you  to." 

"  Oh,  you  don't !  "  he  murmured  blankly,  pulling  down 
the  corners  of  his  wide,  expressive  mouth. 

"  So  sorry,"  she  parroted.     "  G'dafternoon." 


JOAN    THURSDAY  217 

She  was  several  steps  away  before  the  man  recovered 
from  this  rebuff.  Then,  with  a  face  of  set  intent,  he 
gave  chase. 

"I   say  — Miss   Thursday!" 

Joan  accepted  with  a  secret  smile  this  sudden  change 
from  the  off-hand  manner  of  his  first  addresses.  "  Miss 
Thursday,  eh  ? "  she  said  to  herself ;  but  halted  none 
the  less. 

"  Well  ?  "  —  with  self-evident  surprise. 

u  Look  here  —  lis'n!  "  insisted  Quard:  "  I  got  to  have 
a  talk  with  you." 

"  What  about  ?  " 

"  Oh,  this  is  no  good  place.     When  can  I  see  you  ?  " 

"  Is  it  quite  necessary,  Mister  Quard  ?  " 

He  wagged  an  earnest  head  at  her :  "  That 's  right. 
What  are  you  doing  tonight  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  got  an  engagement  with  some  friends  of  mine," 
she  said  with  spontaneous  mendacity. 

"Well,  then,  when?" 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know ;  you  might  as  well  take  your 
chances  —  call  round  sometime  —  in  two  or  three  days." 

"  And  I  got  to  be  satisfied  with  that  ?  " 

"  Why  not  ?  " 

Quard  shook  his  head  helplessly :  "  I  M  like  to  know 
what 's  come  over  you.  .  .  ." 

"  Why,  what 's  the  matter  ?  "  The  temptation  to  lead 
him  on  was  irresistible. 

"  You  've  changed  a  lot  since  I  seen  you  last.  What 
you  been  doing  to  yourself  ?  " 

She  bridled.  ..."  Maybe  it 's  you  that  is  changed. 
Maybe  you  're  seeing  things  different,  now  you  're  sober." 

Quard  hesitated  an  instant,  his  features  drawn  with 
anger.  Then  abruptly:  "Plenty!"  he  ejaculated,  and 
as  if  afraid  to  trust  himself  further,  turned  and  marched 
back  to  Broadway. 

Smiling  quietly,  Joan  made  her  way  home.  On  the 
whole,  the  encounter  had  not  been  unen  joy  able.  She  had 


218  JOAN    THURSDAY 

not  only  held  her  own,  she  had  condescended  with  striking 
success. 

Later,  she  repented  a  little  of  her  harshness ;  she  had 
been  hardly  kind,  if  Quard  were  sincere  in  his  protesta- 
tions of  reform ;  and  a  little  tolerance  might  have  earned 
her  an  evening  less  lonely. 

It  was  spent,  after  a  dinner  which  proved  unexpectedly 
desolate,  lacking  the  companionship  to  which  of  late  she 
had  grown  accustomed,  in  the  back-parlour  (to  which 
Matthias  had  left  her  the  key)  and  in  discontented  efforts 
to  fix  her  interest  on  a  novel.  Before  ten  o'clock  she  gave 
it  up,  and  climbed  to  her  room,  to  lie  awake  for  hours  in 
mute  rebellion  against  her  friendless  estate.  She  might, 
it  was  true,  have  kept  a  promise  made  to  her  lover  just 
before  his  departure,  to  look  up  and  renew  relations  with 
her  family.  But  the  more  she  contemplated  this  step, 
the  less  it  attracted  her  inclination.  There  'd  be  v  another 
row  with  the  Old  Man,  most  likely  and  .  .  .  anyway, 
there  was  plenty  of  time.  Besides,  they  'd  want  money,, 
if  they  found  out  she  had  any ;  and  while  a  hundred  and 
fifty  was  a  lot,  there  was  no  telling  when  she  'd  get  more. 

Eventually  she  fell  asleep  while  reviewing  her  meeting 
with  Quard  and  turning  over  her  hazy  impression  that 
it  would  n't  hurt  her  to  be  less  stand-offish  with  him,  next 
time. 

In  the  morning  she  settled  herself  at  her  typewriter  in 
a  fine  spirit  of  determination  to  keep  her  mind  occu- 
pied with  the  work  in  hand  —  and  incidentally  to  rid  her 
conscience  of  it  —  until  the  feeling  of  loneliness  wore  off 
or  at  least  till  its  reality  became  a  trifle  less  unpalatable 
through  familiarity.  But  not  two  pages  had  been  typed 
before  the  call  of  the  sunlit  September  day  proved  seduc- 
tive beyond  her  will  to  resist;  a  much-advertised  "Pro- 
menade des  Toilettes"  at  a  department  store  claimed  the 
rest  of  the  morning ;  and  after  lunch  she  "  took  in  "  a 
moving-picture  show. 

But  again  her  evening  was  forlorn.     Theatres  allured, 


JOAN    THURSDAY  219 

but  she  hardly  liked  to  go  alone.  In  desperation  she  cast 
back  mentally  to  the  friends  of  the  old  days,  and  after 
rejecting  her  erstwhile  confidant  and  co-labourer  at  the 
stocking  counter,  Gussie  Innes  (who  lived  too  near  home, 
and  would  tell  her  father,  who  would  pass  it  along  to 
the  Old  Man)  Joan  settled  upon  one  or  two  girls,  resident 
in  distant  Harlem,  to  be  hunted  up,  treated  to  a  musical 
comedy,  and  regaled  with  a  narrative  of  the  rise  and 
adventures  of  Joan  Thursday  until  their  lives  were  poi- 
soned with  corrosive  envy. 

But  the  first  mail  of  Wednesday  furnished  distractions 
so  potent  that  this  project  was  postponed  indefinitely  and 
passed  out  of  Joan's  mind,  never  to  be  revived.  It  brought 
her  two  letters:  manufacturing  an  event  of  magnitude 
in  the  life  of  a  young  woman  who  had  yet  to  write  her 
first  letter  and  who  had  thus  far  received  only  a  few 
scrappy  and  incoherent  notes  from  boyish  admirers. 

There  was  one  from  Matthias,  posted  in  Chicago  the 
preceding  morning.  Her  first  love  letter,  it  was  scanned 
hurriedly,  even  impatiently,  and  put  aside  in  favour  of 
a  fat  manila  envelope  whose  contents  consisted  of  a  type- 
written manuscript  and  a  note  in  scrawling  longhand: 

"FBIEND  JOAN  — 

"  I  hope  you  are  not  still  mad  with  me  and  sorry  T  got 
hot  under  the  collar  Monday  only  I  thought  you  might  of  been 
a  little  easy  on  me  because,  I  am  strictly  on  the  Water  Wagon 
and  this  time  mean  it  — 

"What  I  wanted  to  talk  to  you  about  was  a  Sketch  I  got  hold 
of  a  while  ago  you  know  you  picked  the  other  one  only  that  was 
punk  stuff  compared  with  this  I  think  —  Please  read  this  and  tell 
me  what  you  think  about  it  if  you  like  it,  I  think  I  will  try 
it  out  soon,  if  it 's  any  good  it 's  a  cinch  to  cop  out  Orpheum  time 
for  a  Classy  Act  like  this  — 

"  Your  true  friend  — 

"CHAS.   H.   QUABD. 

"  P.S.  of  course  I  mean  I  want  you  to  act  the  Womans  part  it 
you  like  the  Sketch,  what  do  you  think  ? " 


220  JOAN    THURSDAY 

"  Well !  "  the  girl  commented  —  "  of  all  the  nerve  —  ! 
I  wonder  what  he  thinks  I  am,  anyivay  ?  " 

Her  tone,  however,  was  not  one  of  immitigable  resent- 
ment, and  was  accompanied  by  a  curious  little  smile. 

She  examined  the  manuscript,  whose  blue  cover  of 
theatrical  convention  bore  a  title  "  The  Lie,"  an  explana- 
tory line,  "  A  Play  in  One  Act,"  and  the  name  of  the 
author  —  one  quite  strange  to  Joan  and  which  she 
promptly  put  forever  out  of  memory. 

A  little  conscience-stricken  and  irresolute,  she  dropped 
the  play,  took  up  Matthias's  letter,  and  read  it  again. 

It  was  a  characteristically  affectionate,  confidential, 
and  hopeful  communication,  tersely  and  well  phrased; 
but  she  found  her  interest  in  it  quite  as  perfunctory  on 
this  second  reading  as  on  the  first,  distracted  as  she  was 
by  consciousness  of  the  unread  manuscript  and  its  poten- 
tial value  to  her  ambition. 

At  length,  a  little  impatiently,  she  turned  again  to 
"  The  Lie." 

Its  twenty-odd  type-darkened  pages  told  a  story  in- 
tensely and,  even  to  an  amateur  judgment,  unusually 
dramatic,  culminating  in  a  scene  of  surprising  strength. 
The  author  had  wasted  no  time  angling  for  "  laughs," 
or  on  any  point  not  vital  to  his  purpose;  from  the  first 
line  the  action  was  swift  and  certain.  Of  the  five  charac- 
ters only  two  were  "  principals,"  and  of  these  the  woman's 
role  was  the  stronger. 

Struck  by  this  last,  Joan  read  the  little  melodrama 
again  and  again  —  but  only  once  from  the  standpoint  of 
the  audience.  After  that  first  reading  she  was  always  the 
woman,  fighting  for  her  happiness  founded  upon  a  lie, 
and  eventually  saved  by  a  lie.  She  saw  herself  in  every 
situation,  heard  her  own  voice  uttering  every  impassioned 
and  anguished  line  assigned  to  the  wife. 

Quard,  of  course,  meant  to  play  the  blackmailer.  Joan 
could  see  how  admirably  the  part  was  fitted  to  his  robust 
and  florid  personality.  .  .  . 


JOAN    THURSDAY  221 

It  was  afternoon  before  she  realized  the  flight  of  time. 

She  turned  back  to  Quard's  note,  a  trifle  disappointed 
that  he  had  n't  suggested  an  hour  when  he  would  call  for 
her  answer. 

Adjusting  her  hat  before  the  mirror,  preparatory  to 
going  out  to  lunch,  she  realized  without  a  qualm  that 
there  was  no  longer  any  question  of  her  intention  as  be- 
tween Quard's  offer  and  the  wishes  of  Matthias.  What- 
ever the  consequences  she  meant  to  play  that  part  —  but 
on  terms  and  conditions  to  be  dictated  by  herself. 

But  in  the  act  of  drawing  on  her  gloves,  she  checked, 
and  for  a  long  time  stood  fascinated  by  the  beauty  and 
lustre  of  the  diamond  on  her  left  hand.  A  stone  of  no 
impressive  proportions,  but  one  of  the  purest  and  most 
excellent  water,  of  an  exceptional  brilliance,  it  meant  a 
great  deal  to  one  whose  ingrained  passion  for  such  adorn- 
ments had,  prior  to  her  love  affair,  perforce  been  satisfied 
with  the  cheap,  trashy,  and  perishable  stuff  designated  in 
those  days  by  the  term  "  French  novelty  jewellery."  Sub- 
consciously she  was  sensitive  to  a  feeling  of  kinship  with 
the  beautiful,  unimpressionable,  enigmatic  stone:  as 
though  their  natures  were  somehow  complementary. 
Actively  she  knew  that  she  would  forfeit  much  rather 
than  part  with  that  perfect  and  entrancing  jewel.  With 
nothing  else  in  nature,  animate  or  inert,  would  it  have 
been  possible  for  her  to  spend  long  hours  of  silent,  wor- 
shipful, sympathetic  communion. 

If  she  were  to  persist  in  the  pursuit  of  her  romantic 
ambition,  it  might  bring  about  a  pass  of  cleavage  be- 
tween herself  and  her  lover;  it  was  more  than  likely, 
indeed;  she  knew  the  prejudices  of  Matthias  to  be  as 
strong  as  his  love,  and  this  last  no  stronger  than  his 
sense  of  honour.  Tacitly  if  not  explicitly,  she  had  given 
him  to  understand  that  she  would  respect  his  objections 
to  a  stage  career.  He  would  not  forgive  unf aith  —  least 
of  all,  such  clandestine  and  stealthy  disloyalty  as  she 
then  contemplated. 


222  JOAN    THURSDAY 

The  breaking  of  their  engagement  would  involve  the  re- 
turn of  the  diamond. 

Intolerable  thought! 

And  yet  .  .  . 

Staring  wide-eyed  into  her  mirror,  she  saw  herself  ir- 
resolute at  crossroads :  on  the  one  hand  Matthias,  marriage, 
the  diamond,  a  secure  and  honourable  future ;  on  the  other, 
Quard,  "  The  Lie,"  disloyalty,  the  loss  of  the  diamond, 
uncertainty  —  a  vista  of  grim,  appalling  hazards.  .  .  . 

And  yet  —  she  had  four  weeks,  probably  six,  perhaps 
eight,  in  which  to  weigh  the  possibilities  of  this  tremendous 
and  seductive  adventure.  "  The  Lie  "  might  fail.  .  .  . 

In  that  case,  Matthias  need  never  know. 


XXII 

As  she  drew  near  to  Longacre  Square,  Joan  saw  Quard 
detach  himself  from  an  area-railing  against  which  he  had 
been  lounging  across  the  street,  and  move  over  to  inter- 
cept her.  Since  she  had  anticipated  that  he  might  waylay 
her  in  some  such  manner,  if  he  did  n't  call  at  the  house, 
she  was  not  surprised  by  this  manoeuvre;  but  she  was 
a  little  surprised  and  not  a  little  amused  (if  quite  pri- 
vately) to  see  him  throw  away  his  cigar  as  they  drew  to- 
gether, and  lift  his  hat.  Such  attentions  from  him  were 
distinctly  novel  —  and  gratifying. 

Complacent,  and  at  the  same  time  excited  beneath  a 
placid  demeanour,  she  greeted  him  with  a  cool  little  nod. 

He  grinned  broadly  but  nervously.  f 

"  I  was  wondering  if  you  would  n't  happen  along 
soon.  .  .  ." 

"  Is  that  so  ?  "  Joan  returned  blandly. 

"  Mind  my  walking  with  you  ?  " 

"  No-o,"  the  girl  drawled. 

"  Of  course,  if  I  'm  in  the  way  —  " 

"  Oh,  no  —  I  'm  just  looking  for  some  place  to  lunch." 

"  Well,  I  'm  hungry  myself.  Why  not  let  me  set  up 
the  eats?" 

"  All  right,"  she  assented  indifferently. 

"Fine!    Where '11  we  go  ?" 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know  .  .  ." 

"  Anywheres  you  say." 

"  Well,  Rector's  is  right  handy." 

"  That  suits  me,"  Quard  affirmed  promptly. 

But  Joan's  sidelong  glance  discovered  a  look  of  some 
discomfiture. 


224  JOAN    THURSDAY 

"  I  guess  you  got  my  letter,  all  right  ?  "  he  pursued 
as  they  crossed  to  the  sidewalk  of  the  New  York  Theatre 
Building. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  Joan  replied  evenly,  after  a  brief  pause. 

"  Wha'd  you  think  of  the  piece  ? " 

"  Oh  .  .  .  the  sketch !  Why,  it  seems  very  interesting. 
Of  course,"  Joan  added  in  a  tone  of  depreciation,  "  I 
did  n't  have  much  time  —  just  glanced  through  it,  you 
know  —  " 

"  I  felt  pretty  sure  you  'd  like  it !  " 

"  Oh,  yes ;  I  thought  it  quite  interesting,"  said  the  girl 
patronizingly. 

She  seemed  unconscious  of  his  quick,  questioning  glance, 
and  Quard  withdrew  temporarily  into  suspicious,  baffled 
silence. 

In  the  pause  they  crossed  Forty-fourth  Street  and  en- 
tered the  restaurant. 

It  was  rather  crowded  at  that  hour,  but  by  good  chance 
they  found  a  table  for  two  by  one  of  the  windows ;  where 
a  heavily-mannered  captain  of  waiters,  probably  thinking 
he  recognized  her,  held  a  chair  for  Joan  and  bowed  her 
into  it  with  an  empressement  that  secretly  delighted  the 
girl  and  lent  the  last  effect  to  Quard's  discomfiture. 

"  Please,"  she  said  gravely  as  the  actor,  with  the  captain 
suave  but  vigilant  at  his  elbow,  knitted  expressive  eyebrows 
over  the  menu  —  "  please  order  something  very  simple.  I 
hardly  ever  have  much  appetite  so  soon  after  breakfast." 

"I  —  ah  —  how  about  a  cocktail ?  "  Quard  ventured, 
relief  manifest  in  his  smoothened  brow. 

"  I  thought  you  —  " 

"  Oh,  for  you,  I  mean.    Mine 's  ice'-tea." 

"  I  think,"  said  Joan  easily,  "  I  would  like  a 
Bronx." 

And  then,  while  Quard  was  distracted  by  the  importance 
of  his  order,  she  removed  her  gloves  and,  with  her  hands 
in  her  lap  hidden  beneath  the  table,  slipped  off  the  ring 
and  put  it  away  in  her  wrist-bag :  looking  about  the  room 


JOAN    THURSDAY  225 

the  while  with  a  boldness  which  she  could  by  no  means 
have  mustered  a  month  earlier,  in  such  surroundings. 

Distrustful  of  her  cocktail,  when  served,  for  all  her 
impudence  in  naming  it,  she  merely  sipped  a  little  and 
let  it  stand. 

The  mystery  of  the  change  in  her  worked  a  trace  of 
exasperation  into  Quard's  humour.  He  eyed  her  nar- 
rowly, with  misgivings. 

"  I  guess  you  ain't  lost  much  sleep  since  we  blew  up," 
he  hazarded  abruptly. 

"  Whatever  do  you  mean  ?  "  drawled  Joan. 

"  You  look  and  act 's  if  you  'd  come  into  money  since  I 
saw  you  last." 

"  Perhaps  I  have,"  she  said  with  provoking  reserve. 

"  Meaning  —  mind  my  own  business,"  he  inferred 
morosely. 

"  Well,  now,  what  do  you  think  ?  " 

"I  —  well,  I  'd  be  sorry  to  think  what  some  folks 
might,"  he  blundered. 

Joan's  eyes  flashed  ominously.  "  Suppose  you  quit  wor- 
rying about  me;  I  guess  I  can  take  care  of  myself." 

"  I  guess  vou  can,"  he  admitted  heavily.  "  Excuse 
me." 

"  That 's  all  right  —  and  so  'm  I."  Joan  relented  a 
little ;  lied :  "  I  have  come  into  some  money  —  not  much." 
Her  gaze  was  as  clear  and  straightforward  as  though  her 
mouth  had  been  the  only  authentic  well-spring  of  veracity. 
"  Let  it  go  at  that." 

"  That 's  right,  too."  His  face  cleared,  lightened. 
"  Le's  get  down  to  brass  tacks :  how  about  that  sketch  ?  " 

"  Did  n't  I  say  it  seemed  very  interesting  ?  " 

He  nodded  with  impatience.  "  But  you  ain't  said  how 
my  proposition  strikes  you.  That 's  what  I  want  to  know." 

"  You  have  n't  made  me  any  proposition." 

"  Go  on !    Did  n't  you  read  my  note  ?  " 

"  Sure  I  did ;  but  you  only  said  you  wanted  me  for 
the  woman's  part." 


226  JOAN    THURSDAY 

"  Ain't  that  enough  ?  " 

She  shook  her  head  with  a  pitying  smile.  "  You  got  to 
talk  regular  business  to  me.  I  ain't  as  easy  as  I  was 
once ;  I  know  the  game  better,  and  I  don't  need  a  job  so 
bad.  How  much  will  you  pay  ?  " 

He  hesitated:  named  reluctantly  a  figure  higher  than 
that  which  he  had  had  in  mind :  "  Thirty-five  dollars  .  .  ." 

"  Nothing  doing,"  said  Joan  promptly. 

"  But  look  here :  you  're  only  a  beginner  —  " 

"  It 's  lovely  weather  we  're  having,  for  September, 
is  n't  it  ?  " 

"  I  'd  offer  you  more  if  I  could  afford  it,  but  —  " 

"  Have  you  heard  anything  from  Maizie  since  she  left 
town  ? " 

"  Damn  Maizie !     How  much  do  you  want,  anyhow  ?  " 

"  Fifty  —  and  transportation  on  the  road." 

He  checked;  whistled  guardedly  and  incredulously; 
changed  his  manner,  bending  confidentially  across  the 
table :  "  Listen,  girlie,  yunno  I  'd  do  anything  in  the  world 
for  you  —  " 

"  Fifty  and  transportation !  " 

"  But  I  had  to  pay  the  guy  what  wrote  this  piece  fifty 
for  a  month's  option.  If  I  take  it  up  I  gotta  slip  him  a 
hundred  more  and  twenty-five  a  week  royalty  as  long 's  we 
play  it :  and  there  's  three  others  in  the  cast,  outsida  you 
and  me.  David  '11  want  fifty  at  least,  and  the  Thief  thirty- 
five  and  the  servant  twenty-five :  there  's  a  hundred  and 
thirty-five  already,  including  royalty.  Add  fifteen  for  tips 
and  all  that :  a  hundred  and  fifty ;  fifty  to  you,  two-hun- 
dred. The  best  I  can  hope  to  drag  down  is  three,  and 
Boskerk  '11  want  ten  per  cent  commission  for  booking  us, 
leaving  only  seventy  for  my  bit  —  and  I  'm  risking  all  I 
got  salted  away  to  try  it  out." 

He  paused  with  an  air  of  appeal  to  which  Joan  was 
utterly  cold. 

"  It 's  a  woman's  piece,"  she  said  tersely ;  "  if  you  get 
a  sure-'nough  actress  to  play  it,  she  '11  want  a  hundred  at 


JOAN    THURSDAY  227 

least,  if  she  's  any  good  at  all.  You  're  saving  fifty  if  you 
get  me  at  my  price." 

This  was  so  indisputably  true  that  Quard  was  staggered 
and  temporarily  silenced. 

"  And,"  Joan  drove  her  argument  shrewdly  home  with 
unblushing  mendacity  —  "  Tom  Wilbrow  says  it  's  only 
a  question  of  time  before  I  can  get  any  figure  I  want  to 
ask,  in  reason." 

Quard's  eyes  started.     "  Tom  Wilbrow !  "  he  gasped. 

"  He  rehearsed  me  in  '  The  Jade  God '  before  Hideout 
went  broke.  I  guess  you  heard  about  that." 

The  actor  nodded  moodily.  "  But  I  did  n't  know  you 
was  in  the  cast.  .  .  .  Look  here :  make  it  —  " 

"  Fifty  or  nothing." 

After  another  moment  of  hesitation,  Quard  gave  in  with 
a  surly  "  All  right." 

At  once,  to  hide  his  resentment,  he  attacked  with  more 
force  than  elegance  the  food  before  him. 

Joan  permitted  herself  a  furtive  and  superior  smile. 
The  success  of  her  tactics  proved  wonderfully  exhilarating, 
even  more  so  than  the  prospect  of  receiving  fifty  dollars 
a  week;  she  would  have  accepted  fifteen  rather  than  lose 
the  opportunity.  She  had  demonstrated  clearly  and  to  her 
own  complete  satisfaction  her  ability  to  manage  men,  to 
bend  them  to  her  will.  .  .  . 

There  was  ironic  fatality  in  the  accident  which  checked 
this  tide  of  gratulate  reflection. 

From  some  point  in  the  restaurant  behind  Joan's  back, 
three  men  who  had  finished  their  lunch  rose  and  filed 
toward  the  Broadway  entrance.  Passing  the  girl,  one 
of  these  looked  back  curiously,  paused,  turned,  and  re- 
traced his  steps  as  far  as  her  table.  His  voice  of  spirited 
suavity  startled  her  from  a  waking  dream  of  power  tem- 
pered by  policy,  ambitions  achieved  through  adulation 
of  men.  .  .  . 

"  Why,  Miss  Thursday,  how  do  you  do  ?  " 

'Flashing  to  his  face  eyes  of  astonishment,  Joan  half 


228  JOAN    THURSDAY 


started  from  her  chair,  automatically  thrust  out  a  hand 
of  welcome,  gasped :    "  Mr.  Marbridge !  " 

Quard  looked  up  with  a  scowl.  Marbridge  ignored  him, 
having  in  a  glance  measured  the  man  and  relegated  him  to 
a  negligible  status.  He  had  Joan's  hand  and  the  knowl- 
edge, easily  to  be  inferred  from  her  alarm  and  hesitation, 
that  she  remembered  and  understood  the  scene  of  last  Sun- 
day, and  was  at  once  flattered  and  frightened  by  that 
memory.  His  handsome  eyes  ogled  her  effectively. 

"  Please  don't  rise.  I  just  caught  sight  of  you  and 
could  n't  resist  stopping  to  speak.  How  are  you  ?  " 

"  I  "  —  Joan  stammered  —  "  I  'm  very  well,  thanks." 

"  As  if  one  look  at  you  would  n't  have  told  me  you  were 
as  healthy  as  happy  —  more  charming  than  both!  You 
are  —  eh  —  not  lonesome  ?  " 

His  intimate  smile,  the  meaning  flicker  of  his  eyes 
toward  Quard,  exposed  the  innuendo. 

"Oh,  no,  I  —  " 

"  Venetia  was  saying  only  yesterday  we  ought  to  look 
you  up.  She  wants  to  call  on  you.  Where  do  you  put  up 
in  town  ?  " 

Almost    unwillingly    the    girl    gave    her    address  — 
knowing  in  her  heart  that  the   truth  was  not   in  this 
man. 

"  And,  I  presume,  you  're  ordinarily  at  home  round 
four  in  the  afternoon  ?  "  She  nodded  instinctively.  "  I  '11 
not  forget  to  tell  Venetia.  Two-eighty-nine  west  Forty- 
fifth,  eh  ?  Right-O !  I  must  trot  along.  So  glad  to  have 
run  across  you.  Good  afternoon."  .  .  . 

Regaining  control  of  her  flustered  thoughts,  Joan  found 
Quard  eyeing  her  with  odd  intentness. 

"  Friend  of  yours  ? "  he  demanded  with  a  sneer  and 
a  backward  jerk  of  his  head. 

"  Yes  —  the  husband  of  a  friend  of  mine,"  she  replied 
quickly. 

The  actor  digested  this  information  grimly.  "  Swell 
friends  you  've  got,  all  right !  "  he  commented,  not  without 


JOAN    THURSDAY  229 

a  touch  of  envy.  "  Now  I  begin  to  understand  .  .  . 
WThat  's  Marbridge  going  to  do  for  you  ?  " 

"  Do  for  me  ?  Mr.  Marbridge  ?  Why,  nothing,"  she 
answered  blankly,  in  a  breath.  "  I  don't  know  what  you 
mean." 

"  That 's  all  right  then.  But  take  a  friendly  tip,  and 
give  him  the  office  the  minute  he  begins  to  talk  about 
influencing  managers  to  star  you.  I  've  heard  about  that 
guy,  and  he  's  a  rotten  proposition  —  grab  it  from  me. 
He  's  Arlington's  silent  partner  —  and  you  know  what 
kind  of  a  rep.  Arlington  's  got." 

"  No,  I  don't,"  Joan  challenged  him  sharply.  "  What 's 
more,  I  don't  care.  Anyway,  I  don't  see  what  Arlington's 
reputation  's  got  to  do  with  my  being  a  friend  of  Mar- 
bridge's  wife." 

"  No  more  do  I,"  grumbled  Quard  — "  not  if  Mar- 
bridge  believes  you  are." 


XXIII 

BEFORE  leaving  the  restaurant  Quard  outlined  in  detail 
his  plans  for  producing  "  The  Lie "  for  vaudeville  pres- 
entation. He  named  the  other  two  actors,  spoke  of  hiring 
a  negro  dresser  who  would  double  as  the  servant,  and 
indicated  his  intention  of  engaging  a  producing  director  of 
the  first  calibre  who,  he  said,  thought  highly  of  the  play. 

Joan  was  a  little  overcome.  Peter  Gloucester  was  a  pro- 
ducer quite  worthy  to  be  named  in  the  same  breath  with 
Wilbrow. 

"  Well,  he  believes  in  the  piece,"  Quard  explained  — 
"  the  same  as  me  — and  he  says  he  '11  give  us  ten  after- 
noon rehearsals  for  a  hundred  and  fifty.  It  '11  be  worth  it." 

"  You  must  think  so,"  said  Joan,  a  little  awed. 

"  You  bet  I  do.  This  means  a  lot  to  me,  anyway ;  I 
gotta  do  something  to  keep  my  head  above  out-of-town 
stock  —  or  the  movies  again."  Mentioning  his  recent  ex- 
perience, he  shuddered  realistically.  "  But  if  this  piece 
ain't  actor-proof,  I  'm  no  judge.  Gloucester  says  so,  too. 
And  to  have  him  tune  it  up  into  a  reg'lar  classy  act  will 
be  worth  ...  something,  I  tell  you!  " 

His  hesitation  was  due  to  the  fact  that  Quard  was 
secretly  counting  on  the  representations  of  his  agent, 
Boskerk,  who  insisted  that,  properly  presented,  the  sketch 
would  earn  at  least  four  hundred  and  fifty  dollars  a  week, 
instead  of  the  sum  he  had  named  to  Joan. 

But  Joan  overlooked  this  lamely  retrieved  slip ;  she  was 
all  preoccupied  with  a  glowing  sense  of  gratification  grow- 
ing out  of  this  endorsement  of  her  first  surmise,  that 
Quard  had  only  waited  on  her  consent  to  go  ahead.  The 
thought  was  unctuous  flattery  to  her  conceit,  inflating  it 


JOAN    THURSDAY  231 

tremendously  even  in  the  face  of  a  shrewd  suspicion  that 
it  was  sentiment  more  than  an  exaggerated  conception  of 
her  ability  that  made  Quard  reckon  her  cooperation  indis- 
pensable. That  the  man  was  infatuated  with  her  she  was 
quite  convinced ;  on  the  other  hand,  she  did  n't  believe  him 
sufficiently  blinded  by  passion  to  imperil  the  success  of  his 
venture  by  giving  her  the  chief  part  unless  he  believed  she 
could  play  it  —  "  actor-proof  "  or  no. 

"  Lis'n,  girlie,"  Quard  pursued  after  one  meditative 
moment :  "  could  you  begin  rehearsing  tomorrow  ?  " 

"  Of  course  I  could." 

"  Because  if  we  don't,  we  lose  three  days.  .  .  ." 

"How?" 

"  Well,"  Quard  explained  with  a  sheepish  grin,  "  I 
guess  I  ain't  any  more  nutty  than  the  next  actor  you  '11 
meet  on  Broadway ;  but  I  'd  as  lief  slip  my  bank-roll  to 
the  waiter  for  a  tip  as  start  anything  on  a  Friday.  And 
Sat'day  and  Sunday 's  busy  days  for  the  Jinx,  too.  I  got 
too  much  up  to  wish  anything  mean  onto  this  piece !  "  .  .  . 

At  his  suggestion  they  left  the  dining-room  by  the  hotel 
entrance  on  Forty-fourth  Street,  and  Joan  waited  in  the 
lobby  while  Quard  telephoned  Gloucester. 

"  It 's  all  right,"  he  announced,  beaming  as  he  emerged 
from  the  booth  —  "  Pete  's  ready  to  commence  tomorrow 
aft'noon.  Now  I  got  to  hustle  and  round  up  the  rest  of 
the  bunch." 

"  Where  will  it  be  ?  "  asked  Joan. 

"  Don't  know  yet  —  I  '11  'phone  you  where  in  the  morn- 
ing, at  the  latest."  .  .  . 

Hastening 'home,  Joan  plunged  at  once  into  the  study 
of  her  part,  with  the  greater  readiness  since  the  occupa- 
tion was  anodynqus  to  an  uneasy  conscience.  Though  she 
was  always  what  is  known  as  a  "  quick  study,"  this  new 
role  was  a  difficult  one;  by  far  the  longest,  and  unques- 
tionably the  most  important,  it  .comprised  fully  half  the 
total  number  of  "  sides  "  in  the  manuscript  —  nearly  half 
as  many  again  as  were  contained  in  Quard's  part,  the  next 


232  JOAN    THURSDAY 

in  order  of  significance.  And  her  application,  that  first 
day,  was  hindered  by  a  perplexing  interruption  in  the  early 
evening,  when  a  box  was  delivered  to  her  containing  a 
dozen  magnificent  red  roses  and  nothing  else  —  neither  i 
card  nor  a  line  of  identification.  At  first  inclining  to  credit 
Quard  with  this  extravagance,  on  second  thought  she  re- 
membered Marbridge,  whom  she  felt  instinctively  to  be 
quite  capable  of  such  overtures.  And  her  mind  was  largely 
distracted  for  the  rest  of  the  night  by  empty  guesswork 
and  futile  attempts  to  decide  whether  or  not  she  ought  to 
run  the  risk  of  thanking  Quard  when  next  they  met. 

Eventually  she  made  up  her  mind  to  let  the  sender  fur- 
nish the  clue ;  and  inasmuch  as  Quard  never  said  anything 
which  the  most  ready  imagination  could  interpret  as  a 
reference  to  the  offering,  she  came  in  time  to  feel  tolerably 
satisfied  that  the  anonymous  donor  must  have  been 
Marbridge. 

It  was  to  be  long,  however,  before  this  surmise  could 
be  confirmed;  although,  on  getting  home  Saturday  night, 
after  a  hard  day's  work  and  a  late  dinner  with  Quard, 
she  was  informed  that  a  gentleman  had  called  and  asked 
for  her  during  the  afternoon,  but  had  left  neither  word 
nor  card.  The  same  thing  happened  on  Monday,  under 
like  circumstances;  after  which  the  attempts  to  see  her 
were  discontinued. 

And  then,  Joan  noticed  that  Venetia  did  n't  call.  .  .  . 

Interim,  the  task  of  whipping  "  The  Lie  "  into  shape 
went  on  so  steadily  that  she  had  little  leisure  to  waste 
wondering  about  Marbridge  or  feeling  flattered  by  his 
interest;  and  she  even  ceased,  except  at  odd  moments,  to 
regard  Quard  as  a  man  and  therefore  a  possible  conquest : 
Gloucester  drilled  the  actors  without  mercy  and  spared 
himself  as  little. 

A  pursy  body,  with  the  childish,  moon-like  face  of  a 
born  comedian,  he  applied  himself  to  the  work  with  the 
extravagant  solemnity  of  a  minor  poet  mouthing  his  own 
perfumed  verses  at  a  literary  dinner.  During  rehearsals 


JOAN    THURSDAY  233 

his  manner  was  immitigably  austere,  aloof,  inspired;  but 
however  precious  his  methods,  he  achieved  brilliant  effects 
in  the  despised  medium  of  clap-trap  melodrama ;  and  under 
his  tutelage  even  Joan  achieved  surprising  feats  of  emo- 
tional portrayal  —  and  this,  singularly  enough,  without 
learning  to  despise  him  as  she  had  despised  Wilbrow. 

She  learned  what  either  Wilbrow  had  lacked  the  time 
to  teach  her  or  she  had  then  been  unable  to  learn:  how 
to  assume  the  requisite  mood  the  moment  she  left  the  wings 
and  drop  it  like  a  mask  as  soon  as  she  came  off-stage 
again.  She  was  soon  able  to  hate  and  fear  Quard  with 
every  fibre  of  her  being  throughout  their  long  scenes  of 
dialogue,  and  to  chat  with  him  in  unfeigned  amiability 
both  before  and  after.  And  her  liking  and  admiration  for 
the  man  deepened  daily,  as  Gloucester  deftly  moulded 
Quard's  plastic  talents  into  a  rude  but  powerful  im- 
personation. 

Partly  because  of  the  brevity  of  the  little  play,  which 
enabled  them  to  run  through  it  several  times  of  an  after- 
noon as  soon  as  they  were  familiar  with  its  lines,  and 
partly  because  Gloucester  was  hard  up  and  in  a  hurry 
to  collect  his  fee,  the  company  was  prepared  well  within 
the  designated  ten  days.  And  through  the  agent  Boskerk's 
influence,  they  were  favoured  with  an  early  opportunity 
to  present  it  at  a  "  professional  try-out  "  matinee,  a  weekly 
feature  of  one  of  the  better-class  moving-picture  and  vaude- 
ville houses. 

The  audiences  attracted  by  such  trial  performances  are 
the  most  singular  imaginable  in  composition,  and  of  a 
temper  the  most  difficult  —  with  the  possible  exceptions  of 
a  London  first-night  house  bent  on  booing  whatever  the 
merits  of  the  offering,  and  a  body  of  jaded  New  York 
dramatic  critics  and  apathetic  theatre  loungers  assembled 
for  the  fourth  consecutive  first-night  of  a  week  toward  the 
end  of  a  long,  hard  winter. 

On  Tuesday  afternoons  and  nights  (as  a  rule)  they 
foregather  in  the  "  combination  houses  "  of  New  York, 


234  JOAN    THURSDAY 

animated  (save  for  a  sprinkling  of  agents  and  bored  man- 
agers) by  a  single  motive,  the  desire  to  laugh.  —  prefer- 
ably at,  but  at  a  pinch  with,  those  attempting  to  win  their 
approbation.  Their  sense  of  humour  has  been  nourished 
on  the  sidewalk  banana-peel,  the  slap-stick  and  the  patch 
on  the  southern  exposure  of  the  tramp's  trousers;  and 
while  they  will  accept  with  the  silence  of  curiosity,  if  not 
of  respect,  and  at  times  even  applaud,  straight  "  legiti- 
mate "  acting,  the  slightest  slip  or  evidence  of  hesitation 
on  the  part  of  an  actoi,  the  faintest  suggestion  of  bathos 
in  a  line,  or  even  the  tardy  adjustment  of  one  of  the  wings 
after  the  rise  of  the  curtain,  will  be  hailed  with  shrieks 
of  delight  and  derision. 

Before  an  assemblage  of  this  character,  "  The  Distin- 
guished Romantic  Actor,  Chas.  H.  Quard  &  Company," 
presented  "  The  Lie  "  as  the  fifth  number  of  a  matinee 
bill. 

Waiting  in  the  wings  and  watching  the  stage-hands 
shift  and  mano3uvre  flats  and  ceiling,  and  arrange  furni- 
ture and  properties  at  the  direction  of  the  David  (who 
doubled  that  role  with  the  duties  of  stage  manager) 
Joan  listened  to  the  dreadful  wails  of  a  voiceless  vocalist 
who,  on  the  other  side  of  the  scene-drop,  was  rendering 
with  sublime  disregard  for  key  and  tempo  a  ballad  of 
sickening  sentimentality ;  heard  the  feet  of  the  audience, 
stamping  in  time,  drown  out  both  song  and  accompaniment, 
the  subsequent  roar  of  laughter  and  hand-clapping  that 
signalized  the  retirement  of  the  singer,  and  experienced, 
for  the  first  and  only  time,  premonitory  symptoms  of 
stage-fright. 

Through  what  seemed  a  wait  of  several  minutes  after  the 
disappearance  of  the  despised  singer  —  who,  half-reeling, 
half-running,  with  tears  furrowing  her  enameled  cheeks, 
brushed  past  Joan  on  her  way  to  her  dressing-room  — 
the  applause  continued,  rising,  falling,  dying  out  and  re- 
viving in  vain  attempts  to  lure  the  object  of  its  ridicule 
back  to  the  footlights. 


JOAN    THURSDAY  235 

At  a  word  from  David,  the  stage-hands  vanished,  and  at 
his  nod  Joan  moved  on.  David  seated  himself  and  opened 
a  newspaper  while  the  girl,  trembling,  took  up  a  position 
near  a  property  fireplace,  with  an  after-dinner  coffee-cup 
and  saucer  in  her  hands.  She  was  looking  her  best  in  the 
evening  frock  purchased  for  the  week-end  at  Tanglewood, 
and  was  in  full  command  of  her  lines  and  business;  but 
there  was  a  lump  in  her  throat  and  a  sickly  sensation  in 
the  pit  of  her  stomach  as  the  cheap  orchestra  took  up  the 
refrain  of  a  time-worn  melody  which  had  been  pressed  into 
service  as  curtain  music. 

Peering  over  the  edge  of  his  newspaper,  David  spoke 
final  words  of  kindly  counsel :  "  Don't  you  mind,  what- 
ever happens.  Make  believe  they  ain't  no  audience." 

The  house  was  quiet,  now,  and  the  music  very  clear. 

Kneeling  within  the  recess  of  the  fireplace,  almost  near 
enough  to  touch  her  hand,  Quard  begged  plaintively: 
"  For  the  love  of  Gawd,  don't  let  their  kidding  queer  you, 
girlie.  Remember,  Boskerk  promised  he  'd  have  Martin 
Beck  out  front !  " 

Joan  nodded  —  gulped. 

The  curtain  rose.  Through  the  glare  of  footlights  the 
auditorium  was  vaguely  revealed,  a  vast  and  gloomy  amphi- 
theatre dotted  with  an  infinite,  orderly  multitude  of 
round  pink  spots,  and  still  with  the  hush  of  expectancy. 
Joan  thought  of  a  dotted  lavender  foulard  she  had  re- 
cently coveted  in  a  department-store;  and  the  ridiculous 
incongruity  of  this  comparison  in  some  measure  restored 
her  assurance.  Turning  her  head  slowly,  she  looked  at 
David,  who  was  properly  intent  on  his  newspaper,  smiled, 
and  parted  her  lips  to  speak  the  opening  line. 

From  the  gallery  floated  a  shrill,  boyish  squeal: 

"  Gee!  pipe  the  pippin!" 

The  audience  rocked  and  roared.  Joan's  heart  sank; 
then,  suddenly,  resentment  kindled  her  temper;  she  grew 
coldly,  furiously  angry,  and  forgot  entirely  to  be  afraid  of 
that  stupid,  bawling  beast,  the  public.  But  her  faint, 


236  JOAN    THURSDAY 

charming  smile  never  varied  a  fraction.  Turning,  she 
spoke  the  first  line,  heedless  of  the  uproar;  and  as  if 
magically  it  was  stilled.  A  feeling  of  contempt  and  su- 
periority further  encouraged  her.  She  repeated  the  words, 
which  were  of  no  special  value  to  the  plot  —  merely  a  trick 
of  construction  to  postpone  the  ringing  of  a  telephone-bell 
long  enough  to  let  the  audience  grasp  the  relationship  of 
those  upon  the  stage. 

In  a  respectful  silence,  David  looked  up  from  the  news- 
paper and  replied.  The  telephone-bell  rang.  Turning  to 
the  instrument  on  the  table  beside  him,  he  lifted  the  re- 
ceiver to  his  ear  and  —  the  plot  began  to  unfold. 

David,  the  husband,  in  his  suburban  home,  was  being 
called  to  New  York  on  unexpected  business  with  a  client 
booked  to  sail  for  Europe  in  the  morning.  It  was  night; 
reluctant  to  go,  he  none  the  less  yielded  to  pressure,  rang 
for  the  coachman  and  ordered  a  carriage,  in  the  face  of 
the  protests  of  Joan,  his  wife.  She  was  to  be  left  alone 
in  the  house  with  their  little  son ;  for  the  maids  were  out 
and  the  coachman  slept  beyond  call  in  the  stable.  Reas- 
suring her  with  his  promise  to  return  at  the  earliest  possi- 
ble moment,  David  departed.  .  .  . 

A  brief  and  affectionate  passage  between  the  two  was 
rendered  inaudible  by  derisive  laughter;  but  this  was 
almost  instantly  silenced  when  Quard  showed  himself  at 
a  window  in  the  back  of  the  set,  peering  furtively  in  at 
the  lonely  woman  in  the  unguarded  house. 

An  excellent  actor  when  properly  guided,  and  fresh  from 
the  hands  of  one  of  the  most  astute  producers  connected 
with  the  American  stage,  without  uttering  a  word  Quard 
contrived  to  infuse  into  this  first  brief  appearance  at  the 
window  a  sense  of  criminal  and  sinister  mystery  which 
instantly  enchained  the  imagination  of  the  audience. 

In  the  tense  silence  of  the  house,  the  nervous  gasp  of 
a  high-strung  woman  was  distinctly  audible.  But  it  passed 
without  eliciting  a  single  hoot. 

Darting  round  to  the  door,  Quard  entered  and  addressed 


JOAN    THURSDAY  237 

Joan.  She  cried  out  strongly  in  mingled  terror  and  hor- 
ror. A  few  crisp  and  rapid  lines  uncovered  the  argument : 
Quard  was  the  woman's  first  husband,  who  had  married 
and  deserted  her  all  in  a  week  and  whom  she  had  been 
given  every  reason  to  believe  dead.  Ashamed  of  that  mad 
union  with  a  dissolute  blackguard,  she  had  concealed  it 
from  the  husband  of  her  second  marriage.  Now  she  was 
confronted  with  the  knowledge  that  her  innocently  biga- 
mous position  would  be  made  public  unless  she  submitted 
to  blackmail.  Promising  in  her  torment  to  give  the  man 
all  he  demanded,  she  induced  him  to  leave  before  the  re- 
turn of  the  servant.  .  .  .  Alone  she  realized  suddenly  the 
illegitimacy  of  the  child  of  her  second  marriage. 

At  this,  a  scene-curtain  fell,  and  a  notice  was  flashed 
upon  it  informing  the  audience  that  the  short  moment  it 
remained  down  indicated  a  lapse  of  five  hours  in  the 
action. 

Already  the  interest  of  the  audience  had  become  so 
fixed  that  it  applauded  with  sincerity. 

Hurrying  to  her  dressing-room,  Joan  stepped  out  of 
her  pretty  frock  and  into  a  negligee.  The  removal  of 
a  few  pins  permitted  her  hair  to  fall  down  her  back,  a 
long,  thick,  plaited  rope  of  bronze.  Then  grasping  a 
revolver  loaded  with  blanks,  she  ran  back  to  the  second 
left  entrance. 

The  scene-curtain  was  already  up ;  on  the  stage,  in  semi- 
darkness,  the  Thief,  having  broken  into  the  house  by  way 
of  the  back  window,  was  attempting  to  force  the  combina- 
tion of  a  small  safe  behind  a  screen.  .  .  .  Quard,  kneeling 
to  peer  through  the  fireplace,  lifted  a  signalling  hand  to 
Joan.  David  stamped  loudly,  off-stage.  In  alarm,  the 
Thief  hid  himself  behind  the  screen;  and  Joan  came  on, 
with  a  line  of  soliloquy  to  indicate  that  she  had  been 
awakened  by  the  noise  of-  the  burglar's  entrance.  As  she 
turned  up  the  lights  by  means  of  a  wall-switch,  Quard  re- 
entered  by  way  of  the  window,  in  a  well-simulated  state 
of  semi-drunkenness  which  had  ostensibly  roused  his  dis- 


238  JOAN    THURSDAY 

trust  and  brought  him  back  to  watch  and  threaten  his 
wife  anew.  .  .  . 

Here  happened  one  of  those  terrible  blunders  which 
seem  almost  inseparable  from  first  performances. 

As  Joan  wheeled  round  to  recognize  Quard,  her  hand 
nervously  contracted  on  the  revolver,  and  it  exploded 
point-blank  at  Quard's  chest.  Had  it  been  loaded  he  must 
inevitably  have  been  killed  then  and  there;  and  when, 
pulling  himself  together,  Quard  managed  to  go  on  with 
the  business  —  springing  upon  Joan  and  wresting  the 
weapon  from  her  —  the  audience  betrayed  exquisite  ap- 
preciation of  the  impossibility,  and  shrieked  and  whooped 
with  joy  unrestrained. 

It  was  some  minutes  before  they  were  able  audibly  to 
take  up  the  dialogue.  And  this  was  fortunate,  in  a  way; 
for  the  shock  of  that  unexpected  explosion  had  caused 
Quard  to  "  dry  up  "  —  as  the  slang  of  the  stage  terms 
nervous  dryness  of  the  throat  whether  or  not  accompanied 
by  forgetfulness.  He  required  that  pandemoniac  pause  in 
which  to  recover;  and  even  when  able  to  make  himself 
heard,  he  repeated  hoarsely  and  with  extreme  difficulty 
the  line  called  to  him  by  David  —  who  was  holding  the 
prompt-book,  in  the  fireplace. 

But  the  instinct  of  one  bred  to  the  stage  from  childhood 
saved  him.  And  with  comparative  quiet  restored,  he 
braced  up  and  played  out  the  scene  with  admirable  verve 
and  technique.  Joan  was  well  aware  that,  stronger  though 
her  role  might  be,  the  man  was  giving  a  performance  that 
overshadowed  it  heavily. 

He  was  drunk  and  he  was  brutal :  David  had  telephoned 
that  he  was  at  the  railroad  station  and  would  be  home  in 
a  few  minutes ;  Quard,  not  content  with  promises,  insisted 
on  money,  of  which  the  woman  had  none  to  give  him,  or 
her  jewels,  which  were  locked  away  in  the  safe.  When 
she  refused  to  disclose  the  combination  or  to  open  the  safe, 
Quard  in  besotted  rage  attempted  to  force  her  to  open  it. 
Struggling,  they  overturned  the  screen,  exposing  the  Thief. 


JOAN    THURSDAY  239 

Through  a  breathless  and  silent  instant  the  two  men  faced 
one  another,  Quard  bewildered,  the  Thief  seeing  his  way 
of  escape  barred.  Then  simultaneously  they  fired  — 
Quard  using  the  woman's  revolver.  One  shot  only  took 
effect  —  the  Thief  s  —  and  that  fatally.  Quard  fell.  Joan 
seized  the  arm  of  the  Thief  and  urged  him  from  the  house ; 
as  he  vanished  through  the  window,  she  picked  up  the 
revolver  which  Quard  had  dropped,  and  turned  to  the 
door.  Frantic  with  alarm,  David  entered.  Joan  reeled 
into  his  arms,  screaming :  "  I  have  killed  a  burglar !  " 

On  this  tableau  the  curtain  fell  —  and  rose  and  fell 
again  and  again  at  the  direction  of  the  house-manager 
deferring  to  an  enthusiastic  audience.  Crude  and  raw 
as  was  this  composition,  the  surprise  of  its  last  line  and 
the  strength  with  which  it  was  acted,  had  won  the  un- 
stinted approval  of  a  public  ever  hungry  for  melodrama. 

Quard,  revivified,  bowing  and  smiling  with  suave  and 
deprecatory  grace,  Joan  in  tears  of  excitement  and  de- 
light, and  the  subordinate  members  of  the  company  in 
varying  stages  of  gratification  over  the  prospect  of  prompt 
booking  and  a  long  engagement,  were  obliged  to  hold  the 
stage  through  nine  curtain-calls.  .  .  . 

On  her  way  back  to  her  dressing-room  Joan  was  halted 
by  a  touch  on  her  shoulder.  She  paused,  to  recognize 
Gloucester,  of  whose  presence  in  the  house  she  had  been 
ignorant. 

"  Very  well  done,  my  dear,"  he  said  loftily ;  "  very  well 
done.  You  've  got  the  makings  of  an  actress  in  you,  if 
you  don't  lose  your  head.  Now  run  along  and  dry  your 
eyes,  like  a  good  girl,  and  don't  bother  me  with  your 
silly  gratitude." 

With  this  he  brusquely  turned  his  back  to  her. 

But  Quard,  overtaking  her  in  the  gangway,  without 
hesitation  or  apology  folded  her  in  his  arms  and  kissed 
her  on  the  lips.  And  Joan  submitted  without  remon- 
strance, athrill  and  elate. 

"  Girlie !  "  he  cried  exultantly  —  "  you  're  a  wonder ! 


240  JOAN    THURSDAY 

I  knew  you  could  do  it !  .  .  .  But,  O  my  Gawd !  you  nearly 
finished  me  when  you  let  that  gun  off  right  in  my 
face!"  .  .  . 

Somehow  she  found  her  way  home  alone,  and  shut  her- 
self up  in  the  hall-bedroom  to  calm  down  and  try  to 
review  the  triumph  sensibly. 

Unquestionably  she  had  done  well. 

Quard  had  done  much  better  —  but  no  wonder!  She 
was  n't  jealous :  she  was  glad  for  his  sake  as  well  as  for 
her  own. 

Of  course,  this  meant  a  great  change.  There  was  to 
come  the  day  of  reckoning  with  Matthias.  .  .  .  She  had 
four  letters  of  his,  not  one  of  which  she  had  answered. 
...  If  "  The  Lie "  got  booking,  and  she  went  on  the 
road  with  it  —  as  she  knew  in  her  soul  she  would :  nothing 
now  could  keep  her  off  the  stage  —  she  would  almost  cer- 
tainly lose  Matthias. 

Quard,  however,  would  remain  to  her ;  and  of  Quard  she 
was  very  sure.  That  he  loved  her  with  genuine  and  gen- 
erous devotion  was  now  the  one  clear  and  indisputable 
fact  in  her  unstable  existence.  If  only  he  would  refrain 
from  drinking  .  .  . 

He  was  to  telephone  as  soon  as  he  received  any  en- 
couraging news ;  and  he  had  expected  definite  word  from 
Boskerk  before  the  afternoon  was  over.  In  anticipation 
of  being  called  down-stairs  at  any  minute,  Joan  remained 
in  her  street  dress,  aching  for  her  bed  though  she  was  with 
reaction  and  simple  fatigue.  But  it  was  nearly  eight 
o'clock  before  she  was  summoned. 

"  That  you,  girlie  ?  "  the  answer  came  to  her  breathless 
"Hello?" 

"  Yes  —  yes,  Charlie.    What  is  it  ?  " 

"  I  Ve  seen  Boskerk  —  in  fact,  I  'm  eating  with  him 
now.  It 's  all  settled.  We  're  to  open  next  Monday  some- 
where in  New  England  —  Springfield,  probably ;  and 
we  get  forty  weeks  solid  on  top  of  that." 

"I'm  so  glad!" 


JOAN    THURSDAY  241 

"  Sure  you  are.    We  're  all  glad,  I  guess." 

"  And  —  Charlie  —  "  she  stammered. 

"  Hello  ?  " 

"  Are  you  —  are  you  all  right  ?  " 

"  Sure  I  'm  all  right.  Good  night,  girlie.  Take  care 
of  yourself.  See  you  tomorrow." 

"  Good  night,"  said  Joan. 

Hooking  up  the  receiver,  she  leaned  momentarily 
against  the  wall,  feeling  a  little  faint  and  ill. 

Was  it  simply  overtaxed  imagination  that  had  made 
her  believe  she  detected  a  slight  constraint  in  Quard's 
voice  —  a  hesitation  assumed  to  mask  blurred  enunciation  ? 


XXIV 

BUT  when  Joan  met  Quard  in  the  morning  her  anxious 
eyes  detected  in  his  assured  bearing  none  of  the  nervous 
unrest,  in  his  clear  eyes  and  the  even  tone  of  his  coarse, 
pasty-pale  skin  none  of  the  feverish  stains,  that  are  symp- 
tomatic of  alcoholic  excesses. 

Surprised  and  grateful,  she  treated  the  man  with  a 
tenderness  and  sweetness  she  had  otherwise  been  too  wary 
to  betray.  .  .  . 

By  Thursday  it  was  settled  that  they  were  to  open  on 
Monday  at  Poli's  Theatre  in  Springfield,  for  an  engage- 
ment of  a  week.  If  the  audiences  there  endorsed  the  ver- 
dict of  the  first,  Boskerk  promised  Quard  a  full  season's 
booking. 

From  the  Springfield  house  he  was  to  receive  three 
hundred  and  fifty  dollars.  He  permitted  Joan  to  under- 
stand, however,  that  his  fee  would  be  no  more  than  the 
sum  he  had  first  mentioned  —  three  hundred  dollars. 

It  was  decided  to  leave  New  York  by  a  Sunday  train 
which  would  put  them  down  in  Springfield  in  the  middle 
of  the  afternoon,  enabling  the  company  to  find  suitable 
lodgings  before  meeting  to  run  through  their  lines  in  the 
evening.  They  would  have  an  opportunity  for  a  sketchy, 
scrambly  rehearsal  on  the  stage  Monday  morning,  but 
dared  not  depend  on  that;  for  the  greater  part  of  their 
allotted  period  would  necessarily  be  consumed  in  the 
selection  of  a  practicable  "  set "  from  the  stock  of  the 
theatre,  in  making  arrangements  for  suitable  furniture 
properties,  and  in  drilling  the  house  electrician  in  the 
uncommonly  heavy  schedule  of  light  cues  —  any  one  of 
which,  if  bungled,  was  calculated  seriously  to  impair  the 
illusion  of  the  sketch. 

Joan  thoughtfully  stipulated  for  twenty-five  dollars  ad- 


JOAN    THURSDAY  243 

vance,  against  expenses.  Quard  protested,  alleging  finan- 
cial straits  due  to  his  already  heavy  outlay,  but  the  girl 
was  firm.  True,  she  still  had  (unknown  to  him)  one  hun- 
dred and  twenty-five  dollars;  but  not  until  near  the  end 
of  their  week  at  Springfield  would  they  know  whether  or 
not  they  were  to  get  further  booking. 

In  the  end  the  actor  ungraciously  surrendered. 

She  made  her  preparations  for  leaving  her  hall-bed- 
room with  a  craft  and  stealth  worthy  of  a  burglar  pre- 
paring to  break  prison. 

If  her  break  with  Matthias  was  to  become  absolute, 
she  was  determined  not  to  leave  any  clue  whereby  she 
might  be  traced. 

An  enquiry  as  to  the  best  place  to  take  a  dress  to  be 
dry-cleaned  furnished  sufficient  excuse  for  lugging  away 
one  well-filled  suit-case,  which  Joan  left  at  a  cheap  the- 
atrical hotel  a  few  blocks  farther  uptown  and  east  of 
Broadway,  where  she  simultaneously  engaged  a  room  for 
Saturday  night.  And  on  Saturday  afternoon  she  carried 
away  a  second  suit-case  containing  the  remainder  of  her 
wardrobe,  informing  Madame  Duprat  that  she  was  going 
to  visit  her  folks  for  a  day  or  two. 

But  first  she  had  to  undergo  a  bad  quarter-hour  in  the 
back-parlour. 

The  sense  of  her  treachery  would  not  lift  from  her 
mood.  Perhaps  she  felt  its  oppression  the  more  heavily 
because  of  her  uncertainty :  she  could  n't  yet  be  sure  she 
was  n't  committing  herself  to  a  step  of  irrevocable  error ; 
she  was  only  sure  that  she  was  doing  what  she  wanted 
to  do  with  all  her  heart,  whatever  evil  might  come  of  it. 
And  there  would  be  more  ease  in  companionship  with 
Quard;  with  him  she  could  have  her  own  way  in  every- 
thing, could  always  be  her  natural  self  and  still  retain 
his  respect  —  and  her  own.  On  the  other  hand,  she  could 
not  look  up  to  him,  and  was  by  no  means  as  fond  of  him 
as  of  Matthias.  Her  fiancee  was  without  reproach:  he 
loved  her;  but  his  respect  she  could  never  own.  Dimly 


244  JOAN    THURSDAY 

she  recognized  this  fact;  though  he  thought  he  respected 
her,  and  did  truly  honour  her  as  his  promised  wife,  he 
was  his  own  dupe,  passion-blinded.  Actually,  they  were 
people  of  different  races,  their  emotional  natures  differ- 
ently organized,  their  mental  processes  working  from 
widely  divergent  views  of  life. 

Even  in  this  instance,  Joan's  perception  of  the  gulf  be- 
tween them  was  more  emotional  than  thoughtful.  .  .  . 

She  moved  slowly  about  the  room,  resentfully  distressed, 
touching  with  reluctant  fingers  objects  indelibly  associated 
in  her  memory  with  the  man  of  her  first  love. 

Sitting  at  his  desk,  she  enclosed  in  a  large  envelope  his 
letters.  Two  had  arrived  since  Thursday;  but  these  she 
had  not  opened.  She  hardly  understood  why  she  desired 
not  to  open  them;  she  still  took  a  real  and  deep  interest 
in  his  fortunes;  but  she  was  desperately  loath  to  read 
the  mute  reproach  legible,  if  to  her  eyes  alone,  between 
his  lines. 

She  meant  to  leave  him  a  note  of  her  own,  tenderly 
contrite  and  at  the  same  time  firmly  final;  but  in  spite 
of  a  mood  saturate  with  an  appropriately  gentle  and  gen- 
erous melancholy,  she  could  not,  apparently,  fix  it  down 
with  ink  on  paper.  Eventually  she  gave  it  up :  destroyed 
what  she  had  attempted,  and  sealed  the  packet,  leaving 
Matthias  no  written  word  of  hers  save  his  name  on  the 
face  of  the  envelope. 

There  remained  the  most  difficult  duty  of  all. 

With  painful  reluctance,  Joan  removed  the  ring  from 
her  finger  (where  it  had  been  ever  since  she  had  last  parted 
with  Quard)  and  replacing  it  in  its  leather-covered  case, 
sat  for  a  long  time  looking  her  farewell  upon  that  brilliant 
and  more  than  intrinsically  precious  jewel. 

At  length,  closing  the  case,  she  placed  it  on  top  of  the 
envelope,  rose  and  moved  to  the  door.  There  she  hesitated, 
looking  back  in  pain  and  longing. 

There  was  no  telling  what  might  happen  to  it  before 
Matthias  returned.  A  prying  chambermaid  .  .  . 


JOAN    THURSDAY  245 

And  then  it  was  quite  possible  that  "  The  Lie  "  would 
not  last  out  the  week  in  Springfield. 

Quard  had  more  than  once  pointed  out :  "  There  's  noth- 
ing sure  in  this  game  but  the  fact  that  you  're  bound  to 
close  sooner  'n  you  looked  for." 

"  Maybe  I  '11  be  back  inside  a  week,"  Joan  doubted. 

There  was  always  that  chance;  and  she  had  already 
left  one  door  open  against  her  return. 

"  Anyway,  it  is  n't  safe,  there.  And  I  can  mail  it  to 
him,  registered,  when  I  'm  sure  he  's  home." 

Turning  back,  she  snatched  up  the  leather  case  and 
darted  guiltily  from  the  study  and  out  of  the  house. 


XXV 

• 

THE  stage-wise  have  long  since  learned  to  discount  a 
"  slump  "  in  the  next  performance  to  follow  a  brilliantly 
successful  premiere:  the  phenomenon  is  as  inevitable  as 
poor  food  on  a  route  of  one-night  stands. 

At  Springfield,  on  Monday  afternoon,  "  The  Lie  "  was 
presented  in  a  manner  of  unpardonable  crudity.  Quard 
forgot  his  lines  and  extemporized  and  "  gagged  "  desper- 
ately to  cover  the  consequent  breaks  in  the  dialogue ;  leav- 
ing poor  Joan  hopelessly  at  sea,  floundering  for  cues  that 
were  never  uttered. 

At  the  last  moment  it  was  discovered  that  nothing  had 
been  provided  to  simulate,  at  the  beginning  of  the  second 
scene,  the  sound  of  a  clock  striking  twelve,  off-stage.  The 
property  man  could  offer  nothing  better  than  an  iron 
crowbar  and  a  hammer ;  the  twelve  strokes,  consequently, 
resembled  nothing  in  the  world  other  than  a  wholly  un- 
temperamental  crowbar  banged  by  a  dispassionate  ham- 
mer. Fortunately,  the  effect  was  so  thin  and  dead  that 
it  convulsed  only  the  first  few  rows  of  the  orchestra. 

The  light  cues  went  wrong  when  they  were  not  alto- 
gether ignored ;  and  once,  when  Joan  having  indicated  in 
a  brief  soliloquy  her  depression  on  being  left  alone  in  the 
gloomy  house,  gave  the  cue  "  I  must  have  more  light,"  at 
the  same  time  touching  a  property  switch  on  the  wall, 
every  light  in  the  house  other  than  the  red  "  exit "  lamps 
was  "  blacked  out."  And  at  all  other  times  the  required 
changes  either  anticipated  or  dragged  far  behind  their 
cues. 

The  Thief  forgot  to  load  his  revolver,  with  the  result 
that  Quard  fired  the  only  shot  in  their  duel  —  and  then 


JOAN    THURSDAY  247 

fell  dead.  This  so  rattled  David  that  he  anticipated  his 
first  entrance  and  rushed  on  the  stage  only  to  back  off 
precipitately  while  Joan  was  urging  the  Thief  to  go  and 
leave  her  to  shoulder  his  crime. 

The  only  misadventure  that  failed  to  attend  upon  the 
performance  was  a  traditional  one  of  the  stage :  the  theatre 
cat  by  some  accident  did  not  walk  upon  the  scene  at  a  cli- 
max and  seat  itself  before  the  footlights  to  wash  its  face. 

Nevertheless  the  sketch  "  got  over  "  at  the  matinee,  re- 
ceiving three  curtain  calls ;  and  at  night  —  when  the  little 
company,  conscious  of  its  crimes,  pulled  itself  together  and 
acted  with  an  intensity  of  effort  only  equalled  by  that  of 
its  first  performance  in  ]STew  York  —  the  house  gave  the 
piece  a  rousing  reception. 

Thereafter  they  played  it  well  and  consistently,  with 
increasing  assurance  as  days  passed  and  use  bred  the 
habit  in  them  all. 

On  Thursday  Quard  heard  from  Boskerk,  and  an- 
nounced that  the  company  would  return  to  IsTew  York 
the  following  Monday  to  play  a  six  weeks'  engagement  in 
the  Percy  Williams  nouses,  beginning  with  a  fortnight  in 
Manhattan  and  winding  up  in  Greenpoint,  Long  Island. 
He  added  that  Boskerk  was  busy  arranging  a  subsequent 
tour  which  would  take  them  to  the  Pacific  Coast  and  back. 
He  did  not  add  that  the  agent  had  successfully  demanded 
as  much  as  four  hundred  and  fifty  dollars  a  week  for  the 
offering  from  many  of  the  more  prosperous  houses  on  their 
list ;  from  which  figure  the  price  ranged  down  to  as  little  as 
three  hundred  in  some  of  the  smaller  inland  towns.  But 
even  at  this  minimum,  Quard  had  so  scaled  his  salary  list, 
contrary  to  his  representations  to  Joan,  that  his  gross 
weekly  profit  (excluding  personal  living  expenses)  would 
seldom  be  less  than  one  hundred  dollars  a  week. 

Back  in  New  York,  Joan  established  herself  temporarily 
at  a  small  and  very  poor  hotel  on  the  west  side  of  Harlem. 
Since  their  engagement  took  her  no  farther  south  than 
Sixty-third  Street  and  Broadway  during  its  first  week, 


248  JOAN    THURSDAY 

and  the  second  week  was  played  at  One-hundred-and^ 
twenty-sixth  Street  and  Seventh  Avenue,  she  felt  toler-> 
ably  insured  against  meeting  either  Matthias  or  any  mem- 
ber of  her  own  family. 

She  really  meant  to  go  home  some  time  and  see  how  her 
mother  and  Edna  were  doing,  but  from  day  to  day  put  it 
off,  if  with  no  better  excuse  on  the  ground  that  she  was  too 
tired  and  too  busy. 

As  a  matter  of  fact  she  was  in  the  habit  of  waking  up 
at  about  ten,  but  never  rose  until  noon;  spent  the  hours 
between  three  and  four  and  nine  and  ten  in  the  theatre; 
and  was  ordinarily  abed  by  half -past  twelve  or  one  o'clock. 
Up  to  the  matinee  hour,  and  between  that  and  the  night, 
she  managed  without  great  difficulty  to  kill  time,  spending 
a  deal  of  it,  and  a  fair  proportion  of  her  earnings,  in  the 
uptown  department  stores.  She  dined  with  Quard  quite 
frequently,  and  almost  invariably  after  the  last  perform- 
ance they  supped  together,  often  in  company  with  friends 
of  his  —  for  the  most  part  vaudeville  people  whom  he 
had  previously  known  or  with  whom  he  struck  up  fervent, 
facile  friendships  of  a  week's  duration. 

They  were  a  quaint,  scandalous  crew,  feather-brained, 
irresponsible  and,  most  of  them,  destitute  of  any  sort  of 
originality ;  but  their  spirits  were  high  as  long  as  they  had 
a  pay-day  ahead,  their  tongues  were  quick  with  the  patter 
of  the  circuits,  and  their  humour  was  of  an  order  new  and 
vastly  diverting  to  Joan.  She  had  with  them  what  she 
called  a  good  time,  and  soon  learned  to  look  leniently  upon 
the  irregular  lives  of  some  who  entertained  her.  Once 
or  twice  she  was  invited  to  "  parties  ",  sociable  gather- 
ings in  flats  rented  furnished,  at  which  she  learned  to  re- 
gard the  consumption  of  large  quantities  of  bottled  beer  as 
a  polite  and  even  humorous  accomplishment,  and  to  permit 
a  degree  of  freedom  in  song  and  joke  and  innuendo  that 
would  have  seemed  impossible  in  another  environment. 

Probably  she  would  have  felt  less  tolerant  of  these  mat- 
ters had  Quard  betrayed  the  least  tendency  to  "  fall  off 


JOAN    THURSDAY  249 

the  wagon."  But  in  her  company,  at  least,  he  refrained 
sedulously  from  drink;  and  since  his  was  one  of  those 
constitutions  whose  normal  vitality  is  so  high  and  con- 
stant that  alcohol  benumbs  rather  than  stimulates  its  func- 
tions, he  shone  the  more  by  contrast  with  their  occasionally 
befuddled  companions. 

Joan  admired  him  intensely  for  the  steadfastness  of 
his  stand,  and  still  more  when  she  saw  how  established 
was  the  habit  of  regular  if  not  always  heavy  drinking  in 
the  world  of  their  peers.  No  one  but  herself  pretended 
for  a  moment  to  regard  the  reformation  of  Quard  as  any- 
thing but  a  fugitive  whim;  and  now  and  again  she  was 
made  aware  that  his  abstinence  was  resented.  She  once 
heard  him  contemptuously  advised  to  "  chuck  the  halo  and 
kick  in  and  get  human  again."  At  another  time  he  ex- 
plained a  false  excuse  given  in  her  presence  for  refusing 
an  invitation :  "  It 's  no  use  trying  to  travel  with  that 
gang  unless  you  're  boozing.  They  got  no  use  for  me  un- 
less I  'm  willing  to  get  an  edge  on.  What 's  the  use  ?  " 

There  was  a  surliness,  a  resentment  underlying  his  tone. 
Intuitively  Joan  bristled. 

"  No  use,"  she  said  sharply.  "  You  know  what  you  're 
up  against  better  than  they  do.  You  Ve  got  to  stick  to 
the  soft  stuff  if  you  want  to  keep  going." 

"  Oh,  I  know/'  he  grumbled.  "  But  it  ain't  as  easy  as 
you  'd  think." 

"  All  right,"  she  retorted  calmly ;  "  but  I  give  you  fair 
warning,  I  '11  quit  you  the  very  first  time  you  come  around 
with  so  much  as  a  whiff  of  the  stuff  on  you." 

"  You  don't  have  to  worry,"  he  responded.  "  I  'm  on 
all  right.  .  .  .  But,"  he  added  abruptly,  "  you  need  n't 
run  away  with  any  notion  this  piece  would  head  for  the 
storehouse  if  you  was  to  quit  it.  The  woods  are  full  of 
girls  who  'd  jump  at  your  chance." 

Joan  answered  only  with  an  enigmatic  smile.  It  is 
doubtful  if  Quard  himself  realized,  just  then,  as  keenly 
as  the  girl  did,  the  depth  and  strength  of  his  infatuation. 


250  JOAN    THURSDAY 

But  Joan  did  not  doubt  her  power.  Neither  did  she 
overestimate  it. 

It  was  toward  the  end  of  their  "  time  "  in  New  York 
that  she  learned  of  the  failure  of  "  The  Jade  God,"  the 
information  coming  to  her  through  the  medium  of  one  of 
those  coincidences  which  would  be  singular  anywhere  but 
on  the  stage.  An  actress  in  a  farcical  sketch,  which  fol- 
lowed the  intermission  preceded  by  "  The  Lie,"  was  as- 
signed to  use  Joan's  dressing-room  when  the  latter  was 
through  with  it.  Naturally,  the  two  struck  up  a  chatting 
acquaintance.  Joan  one  time  replied  to  a  question  with 
the  information  that  "  The  Lie "  was  booked  for  the 
Pacific  Coast,  and  (Matthias  in  mind)  confessed  to  some 
curiosity  regarding  Los  Angeles.  The  other  actress  ad- 
mitted ignorance  of  the  West,  but  had  only  that  morning- 
received  a  letter  from  a  sister  who  was  playing  with  the 
Algerson  stock  company  in  Los  Angeles.  The  letter  con- 
tained a  clipping  describing  the  immediate  and  disastrous 
collapse  of  "  The  Jade  God,"  which  had  been  withdrawn 
after  its  third  repetition.  Reading  the  review,  Joan  was 
puzzled  to  recognize  some  of  its  references ;  she  was  fairly 
familiar  with  the  play,  but  here  and  there  she  encountered 
strictures  which  seemed  to  involve  scenes  she  could  n't  re- 
member. But  of  the  fact  of  the  failure  there  could  be  no 
doubt 

She  was  genuinely  sorry.  Her  first  impulse  was  to  seek 
Matthias,  if  he  were  in  town,  and  tell  him  of  her  sym- 
pathy; her  second  (discarded  with  even  less  ceremony 
than  the  first)  to  write  to  him.  Two  things  held  her  back : 
sheer  moral  cowardice,  that  would  not  let  her  face  the 
man  whom  she  had  failed  even  as  had  his  play;  and  the 
impossibility  of  explaining  that  she  loved  the  stage  more 
than  him  or  anything  else  in  the  world  —  except  his  ring. 
And  while  she  never  faltered  from  meaning  to  return 
this  last  "  before  long,"  she  could  not  yet  bring  herself  to 
part  with  it  Always  it  was  with  her,  on  her  finger  when 
at  home  and  alone,  in  her  pocket-book  when  abroad  or  with 


JOAN    THURSDAY  251 

Quard ;  still  in  her  imagination  retaining  something  of  its 
vaguely  talismanic  virtue;  standing  to  her  for  something 
fanciful  and  magic,  which  she  could  not  name,  a  visible 
token  of  the  mystical  powers  that  worked  for  her  good 
fortune.  .  .  . 

It  was  mid-October:  sweetest  of  all  seasons  in  New 
York ;  a  time  of  early  evenings  and  long,  clear  gloamings 
beneath  skies  of  exquisite  suavity  and  depth ;  of  crisp  and 
heady  days  whose  air  is  wine  in  a  crystal  chalice ;  when 
thoughts  are  long  and  sweet,  gentle  with  the  beauty  and  the 
sadness  of  aging  autumn. 

At  the  first  hint  of  winter  Joan's  heart  turned  in  longing 
to  the  thought  of  furs.  She  wasted  hours  studying  adver- 
tisements, and  many  more  going  from  place  to  place,  exam- 
ining, rejecting,  coveting.  Her  fancy  was  not  modest:  a 
year  ago  she  would  have  been  delighted  with  the  meanest 
strip  of  squirrel  for  a  neckpiece;  to-day  she  felt  a  little 
ashamed  even  to  price  the  less  expensive  furs,  and  would 
make  no  attempt  to  purchase  until  she  had  saved  up  enough 
money  to  meet  her  desires. 

And  then,  one  morning  —  they  were  playing  at  the 
Orpheum  Theatre  in  Brooklyn  —  a  messenger  brought  her 
a  package  from  one  of  the  Fulton  Street  stores  and  required 
a  signed  receipt.  It  contained  a  handsome  coat  of  imitation 
seal  with  a  collar  of  rich  black  fur  and  lined  with  golden 
Brocade.  Fitting  her  perfectly,  it  enclosed  her  in  generous 
warmth  from  throat  to  ankle.  Accompanying  it  was  the 
card  of  "  Mr.  Charles  Harborough  Quard,  Presenting  '  The 
Lie,'  the  Sketch  Sensation  of  the  Year,  Address  c/o 
Jas.  K.  Boskerk,  St.  James  Building,  N.  Y." 

Not  since  that  day  when  she  had  received  his  ring  from 
Matthias  had  she  been  so  happy. 

Meeting  Quard  in  the  gangway  outside  her  dressing- 
room,  before  the  matinee  performance,  she  showed  her 
gratitude  by  lifting  her  face  for  his  kiss. 

In  the  world  in  which  they  existed,  kisses  were  common- 
places, quite  perfunctory,  of  little  more  significance  than 


252  JOAN    THURSDAY 

a  slap  on  the  shoulder  between  acquaintances.  Not  so 
Joan's :  she  had  set  a  value  upon  her  caresses,  a  standard 
peculiarly  inflexible  with  respect  to  Quard.  None  the 
less,  this  was  not  the  second  time  he  had  known  her 
lips.  But  the  occasion  was  one  rare  enough  to  render 
him  appreciative. 

He  wound  an  arm  round  her,  and  held  her  tight. 

"Like  it,  eh,  girlie?" 

"I  love  it!" 

"  Then  I  'm  satisfied." 

"  But  how  did  you  guess  what  I  "wanted  most  ? " 

"  Maybe  I  did  a  little  head-work  to  find  out." 

"It's  dear  of  you!" 

"  So  long  's  you  think  so,  I  've  got  no  kick  coming." 

She  disengaged,  drew  a  pace  or  two  away. 

"  But  what  made  you  do  it,  Charlie  ? " 

"  Well,  I  can't  afford  to  have  my  leading  lady  out  of 
the  cast  with  a  cold." 

Joan  shook  her  head  at  him  in  gay  reproof. 

"Or  do  you  want  me  to  tell  you  what  you  know  al- 
ready —  that  I  'm  crazy  about  you  ?  " 

"  Foolish !    It 's  time  we  were  dressing !  " 

But  her  laugh  was  fond,  and  so  was  the  look  she  threw 
over  her  shoulder  as  she  evaded  his  arms  and  vanished 
into  her  dressing-room. 

Quard  lingered  a  moment,  with  a  fatuous  smile  for 
the  panels  of  the  closed  door,  and  wagged  his  head 
doggishly.  He  felt  that  he  was  winning  ground  at 
a  famous  rate  —  the  difficulties,  the  coolness  and  craft 
of  his  antagonist,  considered.  And  in  a  way  he  was 
right,  though  perhaps  not  precisely  the  way  he  had  in 
mind. 

Even  before  his  princely  gift,  Joan  had  been  thinking 
a  great  deal  about  him,  and  very  seriously.  Instinctively 
she  foresaw  that  their  relationship  could  not  long  con- 
tinue on  its  present  basis  of  simple  good-fellowship. 
Quard  was  n't  the  sort  to  be  content  at  arm's-length :  he 


JOAN    THURSDAY  253 

must  either  come  closer  or  go  farther  away,  and  might 
be  depended  upon  not  to  adopt  the  latter  course  until  the 
former  had  proved  impracticable. 

And  Joan  did  n't  want  him  to  go  farther  away.  She 
was  positive  about  this.  But  she  was  also  very  sure  that 
the  arm's-length  relationship  must  be  abridged  only  un- 
der certain  indispensable  conditions  —  decorously  —  and 
soon,  if  at  all:  else  she  must  be  the  one  to  withdraw, 
lest  a  worse  thing  befall  her.  It  was  a  problem  of  two 
factors:  Quard's  nature  and  her  own;  she  had  her- 
self to  reckon  with  no  less  than  with  him;  and  herself 
she  distrusted,  who  was  no  stronger  than  her  greatest 
weakness.  He  attracted  her.  She  often  caught  herself 
thinking  of  him  as  she  had  thought  of  no  other  man  — 
not  Matthias,  not  the  Quard  of  "  The  Convict's  Re- 
turn," not  even  Marbridge  except,  perhaps,  for  one 
shameful  instant. 

Something  in  the  lawless,  ranging,  wanton  grain  of  this 
man  called  to  her  with  a  call  of  infinite  allure :  something 
latent  in  her  thrilled  to  the  call  and  answered.  .  .  .  That 
way  lurked  danger,  disguised,  but  deadly. 

They  moved  on  to  Greenpoint,  thence  to  Trenton  for  a 
week. 

Daily  Quard's  attentions  became  more  constant, 
intimate  and  tender.  They  were  much  together,  and  now 
far  more  exclusively  together  than  had  been  possible  in 
New  York,  where  acquaintances  commandeered  so  much 
of  their  time.  In  Trenton  they  lodged  at  the  same  hotel, 
the  other  members  of  the  company  finding  cheaper  accom- 
modations at  greater  distance  from  the  theatre.  This 
increased  their  close  and  confidential  association.  They 
fell  into  the  habit  of  breakfasting  together.  Quard,  al- 
ways first  to  rise,  would  telephone  to  Joan's  room,  ascer- 
tain how  soon  she  would  be  dressed,  and  order  for  both 
of  them  accordingly.  In  return  for  this  privilege  he  had 
that  of  paying  for  both  meals. 

A  negro  waiter  spoke  of  Joan  one  morning,   in  her 


254  JOAN    THURSDAY 

presence,  as  "  the  Missus."  When  he  had  retired  out  of 
earshot,  their  eyes  sought  one  another's;  constraint  was 
swept  away  in  laughter. 

"  We  might 's  well  be  married,  the  way  we  're  together 
all  the  time,"  Quard  presently  ventured. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know  about  that,"  Joan  retorted 
pertly. 

"  I  mean,  the  way  other  people  see  us.  I  should  n't  be 
surprised  if  everybody  in  the  hotel  thought  we  was  mar- 
ried, girlie." 

Joan  coloured  faintly.  .  .  . 

"  Well,  the  room-clerk  knows  better,"  she  said  defi- 
nitely. "  I  'd  like  another  cup  of  coffee,  please." 

Quard  snapped  his  fingers  loudly  to  attract  the  atten- 
tion of  the  waiter. 

He  grew  aware  of  an  awkward  silence:  that  the 
thoughts  of  both  were  converging  to  a  common  point. 

"  Folks  are  fools  that  get  married  in  the  profession," 
he  observed  consciously.  "  It 's  all  right  if  you  've  got 
a  husband  or  I  've  got  a  wife  at  home  —  " 

"  I  don't  see  it,"  Joan  interrupted  smartly.  "  Any- 
way, I  have  n't.  Have  you  ?  " 

The  actor  stared,  confused.     "  Have  I  —  what  ?  " 

"  Got  a  wife  at  home  ?  "  Joan  repeated,  laughing. 

"  No  —  nothing  like  that  I  "  he  asserted  with  intense 
earnestness.  "  I  mean,  it 's  all  right  if  you  've  got  some- 
body keeping  a  flat  warm  for  you,  some  place  not  too  far 
off  Broadway ;  but  if  you  marry  into  the  business  — 
good  night!  You  got  all  the  trouble  of  being  tied  up  for 
life,  and  that 's  all." 

"Why?" 

"  Managers  don't  want  husband  and  wife  in  the  same 
company.  They  're  always  fighting  each  other's  battles 
when  they  ain't  fighting  between  themselves.  So  you  're 
always  playing  different  routes,  and  the  chances  are  they 
never  cross  except  it 's  inconvenient  and  you  get  caught 
and  nominated  for  the  Alimony  Club." 


JOAN    THURSDAY  255 

"Do  you  belong?" 

"  Did  n't  I  just  tell  you  nothing  like  that  ?  "  Quard 
protested  with  unnecessary  heat. 

"  Well,"  Joan  murmured  mischievously,  "  you  seem  to 
know  so  much  about  it.  I  only  wondered."  .  .  . 

Their  place  on  the  bill  was  near  the  end,  that  week: 
a  trick  bicyclist  followed  them,  and  moving-pictures 
wound  up  the  performance.  Consequently,  by  the  time 
they  were  able  to  leave  the  theatre  in  the  afternoon  the 
sun  was  already  below  the  horizon.  They  emerged  the 
same  evening  from  the  stage-door  to  view  a  cloudless  sky 
of  pulsing  amber,  shading  into  purple  at  the  zenith,  melt- 
ing into  rose  along  the  western  rim  of  the  world.  A  wash 
of  old  rose  flooded  the  streets,  lifting  the  meanest  struc- 
tures out  of  their  ugliness,  lending  an  added  dignity  to 
rows  of  square-set,  old-fashioned  residences  of  red-brick 
with  white  marble  trimmings. 

"  Which  way  are  you  going  ?  "  Quard  enquired  as  they 
approached  the  corner  of  a  main  thoroughfare.  "  Back 
to  the  hotel  ?  " 

"  No ;  I  'm  sick  of  that  hole,"  Joan  replied  with  a 
vivid  shudder.  "  I  'm  going  to  take  a  walk.  Want  to 
come  ? " 

"  I  was  just  going  to  ask  you." 

They  turned  off  toward  the  Delaware. 

It  was  the  twenty-first  of  November  —  winter  still  a 
month  away;  yet  the  breath  of  winter  was  in  the  air. 
It  came  up  cool  and  brisk  from  the  river,  enriching  the 
colour  in  Joan's  cheeks  that  were  bright  and  glowing 
from  the  scrubbing  she  always  gave  them  after  removing 
grease-paint  with  cold  cream.  The  blood  coursed  tingling 
through  her  veins.  Her  eyes  shone  with  deepened  lustre. 
They  walked  with  spirit,  in  step,  in  a  pensive  silence 
infrequently  disturbed. 

"  Of  course,"  Quard  presently  offered  without  preface, 
"  it 's  different  in  vodeveal,  if  you  stick  to  it." 

"What's  different?" 


256  JOAN    THURSDAY 

"  Being  married." 

Joan's  eyes  widened  momentarily.  Then  she  laughed 
outright.  "  Gee !  You  don't  mean  to  say  you  've  been 
chewing  that  rag  ever  since  breakfast  ?  " 

"  Ah,  I  just  happened  to  think  of  it  again,"  said  Quard 
with  the  air  of  one  whose  motives  are  wantonly 
misconstrued. 

Nevertheless,  he  would  n't  let  the  subject  languish. 

"  There  's  plenty  of  family  acts  been  playing  the  cir- 
cuits Gawd  knows  how  long,"  he  pursued,  with  a  vast 
display  of  interest  in  the  sunset  glow.  "  Look 't  the 
Cohans,  before  George  planted  the  American  flag  in  Long- 
acre  Square  and  annexed  it  to  the  United  States.  And 
they  ain't  the  only  ones  by  a  long  shot.  I  could  name  a 
plenty  that  '11  stick  in  the  big  time  until  their  toes  curl. 
It 's  all  right  to  trot  in  double-harness  so  long 's  you 
manage  your  own  company." 

"  Well  ? "  Joan  asked  with  a  sober  mouth  and  mis- 
chievous eyes. 

"Well  — what?" 

"  If  you  're  getting  ready  to  slip  me  my  two-weeks' 
notice,  why  not  be  a  man  and  say  so  ? " 

"  What  would  I  do  that  for  ? "  Quard  demanded 
indignantly. 

"  Because  you  're  thinking  about  getting  married ;  and 
there  's  only  room  for  one  leading  lady  in  any  company 
I  play  in." 

"  Quit  your  kidding,"  the  man  advised  sulkily ;  "  you 
know  I  could  n't  get  along  without  you." 

"  Yes,"  Joan  admitted  calmly,  "  I  know  it,  but  I  did  n't 
know  you  did." 

Quard  shot  a  suspicious  glance  askance,  but  her  face 
was  immobile  in  its  flawless  loveliness. 

He  started  to  say  something,  choked  up  and  recon- 
sidered with  a  painful  frown.  A  mature  man's  perfect 
•freedom  is  not  lightly  to  be  thrown  away.  And  yet  .  .  . 
he  doubted  darkly  the  perfection  of  his  freedom.  .  .  . 


JOAN    THURSDAY  257 

They  held  on  in  silence  until  they  came  to  Kiverside 
Park. 

Over  the  dark  profile  of  the  Pennsylvania  hills  the 
sky  was  jade  and  amethyst,  a  pool  of  light  that  dwindled 
swiftly  in  the  thickening  shades  of  violet.  Below  them, 
as  they  paused  on  a  lonely  walk,  the  river  stole  swiftly, 
like  a  great  black  serpent  writhing  through  the  shadows. 
A  frosty  wind  swept  steadily  into  their  faces,  making 
cool  and  firm  the  flesh  flushed  with  exercise.  There  was 
no  one  near  them.  A  train  of  jewelled  lights  swept  over 
the  railroad  bridge  and  vanished  into  the  night  with  a 
purring  rumble  that  lent  an  accent  to  their  isolation. 
Joan  hugged  about  her  voluptuously  her  wonderful  coat, 
stole  a  glance  warm  with  gratitude  at  the  face  of  Quard. 
He  intercepted  it,  and  edged  nearer.  Aglow  and  eager, 
she  murmured  something  vapid  about  the  prettiness  of 
the  sky. 

He  answered  only  with  the  arm  he  passed  about  her. 
She  suffered  him,  lashes  veiling  her  eyes,  her  head  at 
rest  in  the  hollow  of  his  shoulder.  The  man  stared  down 
at  her  exquisite,  suffused  face,  luminous  in  the  last  light 
of  gloaming. 

"  Joan,"  he  said  throatily  —  "  girlie,  don't  you  love 
me  —  a  little  ?  " 

Her  mouth  grew  tremulous. 

"I  ...  don't  .  .  .  know,"  she  whispered. 

"  I  love  you !  "  he  cried  suddenly  in  an  exultant  voice 
—  "I  love  you!" 

He  folded  her,  unresisting,  in  both  his  arms,  covering 
her  face  with  kisses,  ardent,  violent  kisses  that  bruised 
and  hurt  her  tender  flesh  but  which  she  still  sought  and 
hungered  for,  insatiable.  She  sobbed  a  little  in  her  happi- 
ness, feeling  her  body  yield  and  yearn  to  his,  transported 
by  that  sweet,  exquisite,  nameless  longing.  .  .  . 

Then  suddenly  she  was  like  a  steel  spring  in  his  em- 
brace, writhing  to  free  herself.  Wondering,  he  tried  to 
hold  her  closer,  but  she  twisted  and  fended  him  off  with 


258  JOAN    THURSDAY 

all  the  power  of  her  strong  young  arms.  And  still  won- 
dering, he  humoured  her.  She  drew  away,  but  yet  not 
wholly  out  of  his  clasp. 

"Charlie!  "she  panted. 

"Darling!" 

"  How  do  you  get  married  in  New  Jersey  ?  " 

He  pulled  up,  dashed  and  a  little  disappointed,  and 
laughed  nervously. 

"  Why,  you  get  a  license  and  then  —  well,  almost  any- 
body '11  do  to  tie  the  knot." 

She  nodded  tensely :  "  I  guess  a  regular  minister  will 
be  good  enough  for  us." 

"  I  guess  so,"  he  demurred ;  and  with  another  laugh : 
"  I  was  n't  thinking  serious'  about  it,  but  I  guess  1 
might 's  well  be  married  as  the  way  I  am." 

"  Well,"  she  said  quietly,  "  we  've  got  to.  It 's  the 
only  way  .  .  ." 


XXVI 

AND  then,  suddenly,  the  face  of  life  was  indescribably 
changed:  Joan  Thursday  seemed  but  a  memory,  a  slight 
and  somehow  wistful  shadow  in  the  shadowed  depths  of 
that  darkling  mirror,  yesterday;  in  her  place  another 
creature  altogether  reigned,  the  Joan  Quard  of  today, 
woman,  actress,  wife ;  with  a  gold  band  round  her  finger ; 
mature,  initiate  of  mysteries,  ripe  in  wisdom;  strong, 
poised  serenely,  clear  of  eye;  with  added  graciousness  in 
her  beauty,  conscious  of  added  powers  over  Man,  but 
discreet  in  their  employment. 

She  thought  a  great  deal  about  herself  in  those  days: 
not,  perhaps,  more  than  had  been  common  with  her  in 
that  so-dead  yesterday,  but  much,  and  more  profoundly; 
reading  a  new  meaning  into  the  riddle  of  existence,  so 
changed  had  all  things  become  since  her  marriage. 

Before  her  pensive  vision  Life  unfolded  rare,  golden- 
vista' d  promises. 

With  another  man,  or  in  another  stratum  of  society, 
she  might  have  fulfilled  herself  wonderfully,  even  unto 
her  salvation.  .  .  . 

To  begin  with,  she  was  very  happy.  Pond  to  distrac- 
tion of  her  husband,  she  never  doubted  that  he  worshipped 
her ;  he  gave  her  quick  wits  no  cause  to  entertain  a  doubt. 
They  were  together  always,  inseparable.  She  felt  that 
nature  must  truly  have  fashioned  them  solely  for  one 
another,  and  could  not  forget  her  wonder  that  their  pas- 
sion should  be  so  mutual,  so  complete.  She  loved  him 
to  distraction :  all  his  traits,  his  robust  swagger,  his  sono- 
rous and  flexible  tones,  the  flowery  eloquence  of  his  ges- 
ture, his  broad,  easy-going,  tolerant  good-humour,  the  way 


260  JOAN    THURSDAY 

he  wore  his  clothes  and  the  very  cut  and  texture  of  them. 
And  she  ruled  him  like  a  despot. 

Quard  submitted  without  complaint.  She  was  all  his 
fancy  had  painted  her,  and  something  more;  recognizing 
dimly  that  she  excelled  him  variously  (although  he  was 
quite  incapable  of  analyzing  these  distinctions)  he  served 
her  humbly,  with  unconscious  deference  to  her  many 
excellences.  She  was  by  way  of  making  him  a  better 
wife  than  he  deserved.  If  at  times  conscious  of  some 
little  irk  from  her  amiable  but  inflexible  autocracy,  he 
reminded  himself  that  she  was  a  finer  woman  than  any  he 
had  ever  known,  well  worth  humouring :  it  was  n't  on  every 
corner  a  fellow  'd  pick  up  one  like  Joan. 

He  liked  to  follow  her  into  hotel  lobbies  and  restau- 
rants and  watch  people  turn  to  eye  her,  the  men  with 
sudden  interest,  the  women  with  instinctive  hostility.  It 
even  amused  him  to  quell  a  too-ambitious  stare  with  a 
fixed,  grim,  and  truculent  regard  backed  by  the  menace 
of  his  powerful  physique.  It  gave  a  man  standing,  license 
to  swagger,  to  own  a  woman  like  Joan. 

He  came  to  pander  oddly  to  this  vanity  —  would  leave 
Joan  to  go  to  their  room  alone,  while  he  strolled  off  to 
a  bar  to  meet  some  crony  or  acquaintance  of  the  day, 
tell  his  best  story,  and  then  suddenly  excuse  himself: 

"  Well,  s'long.     The  wife  's  waiting  for  me." 

The  response  rarely  failed :  "  Ah,  let  her  wait ;  have 
another  drink.  Did  I  ever  tell  you  —  " 

A  lifted,  deprecatory  palm,  a  knowing  look :  "  No  — 
guess  I  '11  kick  along ;  y3  see,  she  's  some  wife.  .  .  ." 

Conscious  only  of  his  adoration,  Joan  was  enchanted 
by  their  mode  of  life,  with  its  constant  shifts  of  scene, 
its  spice  of  vagabondage.  She  believed  she  could  never 
tire  of  travelling. 

Railroad  journeys,  with  their  inevitable  concomitants 
of  dirt,  noise,  and  discomfort,  never  discouraged  her: 
she  really  liked  them;  they  were  taking  her  somewhere 
—  it  did  n't  much  matter  where.  She  even  derived  a 


JOAN    THURSDAY  261 

sort  of  pleasure  from  such  (nauseating  experiences  as 
rising  to  catch  a  train  at  four-thirty  in  the  morning, 
against  their  "  long  jumps."  And  there  was  keen  delight 
in  napping  in  a  parlour-car  chair  or  with  a  head  upon 
her  husband's  shoulder  in  a  day-coach,  to  wake  all  drowsy, 
breathe  air  foul  with  coal-smoke,  and  peer  through  a 
black  window-pane  (shadowed  by  her  hand)  to  catch  a 
glimpse  of  some  darkly  fulgent  breadth  of  strange  water, 
or  the  marching  defile  of  great  alien  hills,  or  a  sweep  of 
semi-wooded  countryside  bleached  with  moonlight  —  re- 
membering that,  only  a  few  short  months  ago,  the  world 
of  her  travels  had  been  bounded  by  Fort  George  on  the 
north,  Coney  Island  on  the  south,  knowing  neither  east 
nor  west. 

She  was  discovering  America:  even  as  she  was  dis- 
covering Life.  .  .  . 

Their  route  from  Trenton  took  them  south  through 
Philadelphia,  Wilmington,  Baltimore,  Washington,  Rich- 
mond, and  Norfolk ;  whence  they  doubled  back  by  steamer 
to  New  York,  took  a  Sound  boat  to  Fall  River,  played 
Boston,  and  drifted  through  New  England  in  bitter  cold 
weather,  eventually  striking  westward  again  via  Albany, 
Buffalo,  and  the  middle  country. 

Quard  drew  her  attention  to  the  fact  that  it  was  "  a 
liberal  education."  .  .  . 

Sometimes  she  thought  pityingly  of  Matthias,  and 
wondered  if  he  knew  she  was  married  and  what  she  was 
doing;  and  whether  he  were  angry,  or  heart-broken,  or 
eaten  up  with  morbid  jealousy;  and  how  he  would  act 
should  chance  ever  throw  them  together  again.  She  was 
sorry  for  him:  he  had  lost  her.  If  only  he  had  been  a 
little  more  enterprising  .  .  .  She  wondered  what  would 
have  happened  if  Matthias  had  been  more  enterprising; 
he  could  have  possessed  her  at  any  time  during  the  brief 
period  of  their  infatuation.  If  he  had  married  her  then, 
would  she  be  as  contented  as  she  was  now,  with  Charlie  ? 
She  doubted  it ;  Quard  was  so  completely  his  opposite.  .  .  . 


262  JOAN    THURSDAY 

She  ceased  to  worry  about  the  ring.  She  meant  to 
return  it  some  day,  perhaps.  Though  she  did  not  wear 
it  and  had  never  so  much  as  mentioned  Matthias  to 
Quard,  it  remained  a  possession  whose  charms  tugged 
at  her  heart-strings.  At  times  she  amused  herself  formu- 
lating idle  little  intrigues,  with  the  object  (if  ever  set  in 
motion)  of  excusing  the  appearance  of  the  jewel  upon 
her  hand.  But  all  her  schemes  seemed  to  possess  some 
fatal  flaw,  and  she  was  desperately  afraid  of  the  truth. 
Meanwhile,  the  ring  lay  perdue  at  the  bottom  of  a  work- 
basket  of  woven  sweet-grass  which  she  had  purchased 
shortly  after  her  marriage;  twisted  in  an  old,  empty 
needle-paper  and  mixed  in  with  a  worthless  confusion  of 
trash,  such  as  women  accumulate  in  such  receptacles,  its 
hiding  place  was  well  calculated  to  escape  detection  by 
even  an  informed  purloiner. 

Quard's  tardy  engagement  ring  was  set  with  an  inferior 
diamond  flanked  by  artificial  pearls.  Joan  despised  it 
secretly.  For  a  long  time  it  was  the  sole  blemish  on  the 
bright  shield  of  her  happiness.  .  .  . 

And  then,  the  night  of  their  opening  day  in  Cincinnati, 
Quard  escorted  her  from  the  theatre  to  the  hotel,  left  her 
at  the  door,  and  turned  back  to  "  see  a  friend  "  who  hap- 
pened to  be  playing  on  the  same  bill. 

This  was  quite  the  usual  thing,  and  Joan  went  con- 
tentedly off  to  her  room  and  in  due  course  to  bed,  confi- 
dent that  Quard  would  return  within  an  hour. 

Five  hours  later  she  awoke  to  startled  apprehension 
of  the  facts,  first  that  she  must  have  dropped  off  to  sleep 
without  meaning  to,  next  that  Quard  had  not  returned, 
finally  that  it  was  past  four  o'clock  in  the  morning. 

With  a  little  shiver  of  sickening  premonition  she  rose, 
slipped  into  a  dressing-gown,  called  a  bell-boy,  and  in- 
structed him  to  look  for  her  husband.  Some  time  later 
the  boy  reported  that  the  bar  was  closed  and  the  gentle- 
man not  to  be  found. 

It  was  broad  daylight  when  Quard  staggered  in  with 


JOAN    THURSDAY  263 

the  assistance  of  the  same  bell-boy  and  his  negro  dresser. 
His  eyes  were  glazed,  his  face  ghastly,  his  mind  wan- 
dered: he  was  as  helpless  as  a  child.  With  the  aid  of 
the  boys,  Joan  managed  to  undress  the  man  and  put  him 
to  bed.  At  once  he  fell  asleep,  with  the  cold  stump  of  a 
half-burned  cigar  obstinately  clenched  between  his  teeth. 
It  was  an  hour  before  the  muscles  of  his  jaw  relaxed 
enough  to  release  it. 

Dressing,  Joan  left  the  hotel,  swallowed  some  coffee 
and  rolls,  tasteless  to  her,  in  a  nearby  restaurant,  and 
wandered  about  until  eight  o'clock,  when  she  found  a 
drug-store  open,  and  consulted  the  clerk.  He  advised 
bromo  seltzer  and  aromatic  spirits  of  ammonia.  Armed 
with  these,  she  returned  to  her  husband,  and  shortly  after 
noon,  daring  to  delay  no  longer,  roused  him  by  sprinkling 
cold  water  in  his  face  —  all  other  methods  having  failed 
even  to  interrupt  his  stertorous  breathing.  Even  then  it 
was  some  time  before  she  could  induce  him  to  swallow 
the  medicine,  and  it  required  no  less  than  three  powerful 
doses,  together  with  much  black  coffee  and  followed  by  a 
cold  bath,  to  restore  him  to  presentable  condition.  In 
the  end,  however,  she  succeeded  in  getting  him  to  the 
theatre  in  time  for  the  matinee. 

Through  it  all  she  uttered  no  single  word  of  reproach, 
but  waited  on  the  man  with  at  least  every  outward  sign 
of  sympathy  and  devotion. 

His  remorse  (when  another  nap  at  the  hotel  after  the 
matinee  had  brought  him  to  more  complete  realization  of 
wjiat  had  happened)  was  touching  and,  as  long  as  it 
lasted,  unquestionably  sincere.  Joan  accepted  without 
comment  his  lame  explanation  as  to  the  manner  of  his 
temptation  and  fall  during  an  all-night  session  at  poker 
"  with  the  boys,"  and  gave  genuine  credulity  to  his  pro- 
testations that  it  would  never,  never  happen  again. 

But  three  weeks  later  in  Chicago  he  repeated  the  per- 
formance, though  under  somewhat  less  distressing  cir- 
cumstances. As  before,  he  left  her  in  the  lobby,  "  to 


JOAN    THURSDAY 

finish  his  cigar  and  chin  with  Soandso."  Within  an  hour 
he  was  half-led,  half-carried  to  their  room,  in  a  hopelessly 
sodden  condition.  The  actor  with  whom  he  had  been 
drinking  accompanied  him,  apparently  quite  sober,  but 
puzzled;  and  after  Quard  had  been  helped  to  bed,  ex- 
plained to  the  girl  that  her  husband's  collapse  had  been 
incomprehensibly  due  to  no  more  than  three  drinks. 

"  I  never  seen  nothin'  like  it !  "  the  man  expostulated, 
with  an  air  of  grievance.  "  There  he  was,  standin'  up 
against  the  bar,  with  his  foot  on  the  rail,  laughin'  and 
kiddin',  same  's  the  rest  of  us ;  and  he  'd  only  had  three 
whiskeys  —  though  I  will  say  they  was  man-size  drinks ; 
and  then,  all  of  a  sudden,  he  turns  white  as  a  sheet  and 
starts  mumblin'  to  himself,  and  we  all  thinks  he  's  joshin' 
until  he  keels  over,  limp  's  a  rag.  If  the  stuff  gets  to 
him  like  that,  he 's  got  no  business  touchin'  it, 
ever !  " 

These  experiences  continued  at  varying  intervals;  and 
presently  Joan  began  to  understand  that  Quard  had  not 
only  primarily  a  weakness  to  tempt  him,  but  a  constitu- 
tional inability  to  assert  his  will-power  after  he  had  sui 
rendered  to  the  extent  of  a  single  drink.  One  modest 
dose  of  alcohol  seemed  to  exercise  upon  him  a  sort  oi 
hypnotic  power,  driving  him  on  whether  he  would  or  not 
to  the  next,  the  next,  and  the  next  —  until  the  nadir  of 
unconsciousness  was  reached.  It  was  not  that  he  in- 
variably succumbed  to  moderate  indulgence,  but  that  one 
started  he  rarely  stopped  until  his  identity  was  cor 
pletely  submerged.  Indeed,  the  way  of  alcohol  with  hii 
seemed  never  twice  to  follow  the  same  route;  but  it 
end  was  invariably  the  same. 

Hoping  against  hope,  fighting  with  him,  pleading, 
reasoning,  threatening  with  him,  even  praying,  Joan  en- 
dured for  a  long  time  —  much  longer  than,  in  retrospec- 
tive days,  seemed  possible  even  to  her;  for  she  was 
honestly  fond  of  her  husband,  far  more  so  than  she  was 
ever  of  any  other  living  being  save  herself. 


JOAN    THURSDAY  265 

They  reached  San  Francisco  the  third  week  in  April. 
For  some  time  Quard  had  been  drinking  rather  method- 
ically but  stealthily.  A  threat  made  by  Joan,  while  he 
was  sobering  up  from  his  last  debauch,  to  the  effect  that 
on  repetition  of  the  offence  she  would  leave  him  without 
an  hour's  notice,  had  frightened  the  man  to  the  extent 
of  making  him  hesitate  to  add  one  drink  to  another 
except  at  intervals  long  enough  to  retard  the  cumulative 
effect;  but  never  a  day  passed  on  which,  in  spite  of  her 
watchfulness,  he  did  not  contrive  to  throw  several  sops 
to  the  devil  in  possession,  if  without  ever  quite  losing  his 
wits. 

Detected  with  reeking  breath,  he  would  adopt  one  of 
three  attitudes:  he  was  a  man,  subject  to  the  domination 
of  no  woman  and  of  no  appetite,  had  learned  his  lesson 
and  now  knew  when  to  stop ;  or  he  was  sorry  —  had  n't 
stopped  to  think  —  and  would  n't  let  it  go  any  further ; 
or  nothing  of  the  sort  had  happened,  he  had  drunk  nothing 
except  a  glass  of  soda-fountain  nerve-tonic,  or  possibly  it 
was  his  cigar  that  she  smelled.  With  the  first,  Joan  had 
no  patience;  and  since  she  had  a  temper,  it  was  the  last 
resort  in  Quard's  more  sober  stages,  seldom  employed 
save  when  potations  had  made  him  either  indifferent  or 
vicious.  In  his  contrition,  whether  real  or  assumed,  she 
tried  hard  to  believe.  But  his  lies  never  deceived  her: 
to  these  she  listened  in  the  silence  of  contempt  and 
despair. 

On  the  Wednesday  afternoon  of  their  week  in  San  Fran- 
cisco, the  girl  did  a  bit  of  shopping  after  the  matinee ;  it 
was  half  after  five  before  she  returned  to  the  hotel,  and 
walked  into  their  room  to  find  Quard,  with  his  coat  off, 
seated  in  a  chair  that  faced  the  door.  His  back  was  to 
the  windows,  through  which  the  declining  sun  threw  a 
flood  of  blinding  golden  light,  so  that  Joan's  dazzled  vision 
comprehended  only  the  dark  silhouette  of  his  body. 

She  said  "  Hello,  dearie !  "  lightly  enough  in  the  ab- 
straction of  reviewing  some  especially  pleasing  purchases, 


266  JOAN    THURSDAY 

closed  the  door,  walked  over  to  the  bureau,  put  down  her 
handbag  and  a  small  parcel,  and  removed  her  hat.  Then 
the  fact  that  Quard  had  not  answered  penetrated  her 
reverie.  Disposing  of  her  hat,  she  looked  half  casually 
over  her  shoulder,  to  discover  that  he  had  n't  moved. 
Two  surmises  struck  through  her  wonder:  that  he  had 
fallen  asleep  waiting  for  her;  with  poignant  apprehen- 
sion, that  he  had  been  drinking  again.  But  this  seemed 
hardly  likely:  he  had  been  entirely  rational  and  unin- 
toxicated  during  the  matinee. 

She  said  sharply:    "  What 's  the  matter  ?  " 

Quard  made  no  answer. 

With  a  troubled  sigh  she  moved  to  his  chair  and  bent 
over  him.  His  eyes,  wide  and  blazing,  met  hers  with  a 
look  of  inflexible  hostility  and  rage;  his  mouth  was  set 
like  a  trap,  his  lips,  like  his  face,  were  almost  colourless. 
The  air  was  pungent  with  his  breath,  but  intuitively  she 
divined  that  it  was  not  drunkenness  alone  which  had 
aroused  this  temper,  the  more  dismaying  since  it  was 
for  the  time  being  under  control. 

From  the  look  in  his  eyes  she  started  back  as  from  a 
blow. 

"  Charlie !  what 's  the  matter  ? " 

Quard  opened  his  lips,  gulped  spasmodically,  closed 
them  without  speaking.  The  muscles  on  the  left  side  of 
his  face  twitched  nervously. 

Abruptly  he  shot  up  out  of  his  chair,  strode  to  the 
door,  locked  it  and  pocketed  the  key.  His  face  as  he 
turned  was  terrible  to  see. 

She  shrank  away,  but  his  eyes  held  hers  in  the  fascina- 
tion of  fright. 

"  Why  —  Charlie !  —  what  —  " 

He  interrupted  with  an  imperative  gesture,  took  a  step 
toward  her,  and  shook  his  hand  in  her  face.  Between  his 
thumb  and  forefinger  glittered  something  exquisitely 
coruscant  in  the  sunlight. 

"  What 's  that  ?  "  he  demanded  in  a  quivering  voice. 


JOAN    THURSDAY  267 

She  moved  her  head  in  assumed  bewilderment,  stag- 
gered to  recognize  the  symbol  of  her  broken  troth  with 
Matthias. 

"  I  don't  know.  What  is  it  ?  You  keep  moving  it 
around  so,  I  can't  see  .  .  ." 

"There,  then!"  he  cried,  steadying  the  hand  under 
her  nose. 

Instinctively  her  gaze  veered  to  her  trunk.  Its  lid  was 
up.  On  the  floor  lay  her  work-basket  in  the  litter  of  its 
former  contents.  Her  indignation  mounted. 

"  What  were  you  doing  in  my  trunk  ? "  she  demanded 
hotly. 

Quard's  eyes  clouded  under  the  impact  of  this  counter 
attack.  Momentarily  his  dazed  expression  made  it  very 
plain  that  he  had  taken  advantage  of  her  absence  to  drink 
heavily.  And  this  was  even  more  plain  in  the  blurred 
accents,  robbed  of  the  sharpness  rage  had  lent  them, 
in  which  he  endeavoured  to  justify  himself. 

"  I  wanted  —  shew  on  s'pender  button  —  wanted 
work-basket  .  .  ." 

Anger  returned ;  his  voice  mounted :  "  And  I  found 
this!  What  is  it?" 

Joan  snatched  at  the  ring,  but  he  drew  back  his  hand 
too  quickly  for  her. 

"  It 's  mine.    Give  it  to  me !  " 

"  Where  'd  you  get  it  ?    Tha'sh  what  I  wanna  know !  " 

"  None  of  your  business.     Give  it  —  " 

"  T"  hell  it  ain't  my  business.  I  'm  your  husband  — 
gotta  right  to  know  where  you  get  diamonds "  —  he 
sneered  —  "  diamonds  like  this !  I  never  bought  it." 

"  ISTo,"  she  flamed  back ;    "  you  're  too  stingy !  " 

"  Stingy,  am  I  ?  "  He  faltered  swaying.  "  Tha'snough. 
I  'm  tightwad,  so  s'nother  guy  gets  chansh  to  buy  you 
diamonds.  Tha's  way  of  it,  hey  ?  " 

"  You  give  me  that  ring,  Charlie,"  Joan  demanded 
ominously. 

"  You  got  anotha  good  guess  coming.     What  I  '11  give 


268  JOAN    THURSDAY 

you  is  jush  two  minutes  to  tell  me  name  of  the  fellow  't 
give  it  to  you." 

"  Don't  be  a  fool,  Charlie!" 

"  I  don't  intend  to  be  fool  —  any  longer.  You  tell 
me  or  —  " 

He  checked,  searching  his  befuddled  mind  for  a  com- 
pelling threat. 

With  a  shift  of  manner,  Joan  extended  her  hand  in 
pleading. 

"  Give  me  the  ring,  Charlie,  and  be  sensible.  I  have  n't 
done  anything  wrong.  I  can  explain." 

"  Well  .  .  ."  Grudgingly  he  dropped  the  ring  into  her 
palm.  But  immediately  her  fingers  had  closed  upon  it, 
mistrust  again  possessed  him.  "  Now,  you  tell  me  — 

"  Very  well,"  she  interrupted  patiently.  "  You  need  n't 
shout.  I  don't  mind  telling  you  now.  It 's  my  engage- 
ment ring." 

"  Your  what?  "  sharply. 

"  My  engagement  ring.  I  was  engaged  last  summer  to 
Mr.  Matthias,  before  we  began  to  rehearse  the  sketch." 

"  Engaged  ?  "  he  iterated  stupidly.  "  Engaged  for 
what?" 

"  Engaged  to  be  married.  He  was  in  love  with  me.  I 
meant  to  marry  him  until  you  and  I  met  the  second 
time  —  " 

"  Meant  to  marry  who  ?  " 

"Mr.  Matthias.     We  —  " 

"  Matthias  ?    What  Matthias  ?  " 

"  John  Matthias,  the  author  —  the  playwright.  He 
wrote  '  The  Jade  God/  ' 

Quard  wagged  his  head  cunningly.  "  Y'  mean  to  tell  me 
you  was  engaged  to  that  guy,  and  —  did  n't  marry  him  ?  " 

"  Certainly.     I  married  you,  did  n't  I,  dear  ?  " 

"  And  if  that 's  true,  how  't  happen  you  did  n't  give  'm 
back  his  ring?  Eh?" 

"  I  meant  to,  Charlie,  but  he  was  out  of  town  and  I 
didn't  know  his  address." 


JOAN    THURSDAY  269 

"  That 's  likely !  "  The  actor  laughed  harshly.  "  Tha'sh 
good  one,  that  is !  You  going  to  marry  him,  and  did  n't 
know  his  address.  Expect  me  to  believe  that  ?  " 

"It's  true,  Charlie  —  it's  God's  truth." 

"You're  a  liar!" 

"Charlie—  !" 

"  I  say,  you  're  a  liar !    Wha'sh  more,  I  mean  it." 

Quard  waved  his  hand,  palm  down,  to  indicate  his 
scornful  disposition  of  her  yarn.  Then  he  staggered, 
steadied  himself  by  clutching  the  back  of  a  chair,  and  con- 
scious how  this  betrayed  his  condition,  worked  himself 
into  a  towering  rage  to  cover  it. 

"  I  know  better.  'F  you  'd  ever  got  a  chance  to  marry 
that  feller,  you  'd  've  jumped  at  it.  He  'd  never  've 
got  away.  You  wouldn't  've  given  him  no  more  chance 
'n  you  did  me  —  you  'd  've  pulled  wool  over  his  eyes  same 
way.  /  know  what  'm  talking  about.  You  're  a  liar,  a 
dam'  dirty  little  liar,  tha's  what  you  are." 

Joan's  colour  deserted  her  face  entirely. 

"  Charlie !  don't  you  say  that  to  me  again." 

"  And  what  '11  you  do  ?  Think  I  care  ?  I  know 
what  you  '11  do,  all  right,  because  I  'm  going  make  you 
do  it." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  Wha's  more,  I  know  now  who  gave  you  that  ring. 
I  was  fool  not  to  guess  it  before.  I  did  n't  give  it  to 
you  —  no!  Mist'  Matthias  didn't  give  it  to  you  —  no! 
But  somebody  did  give  it  to  you  —  eh?  Tha's  right, 
is  n't  it  ?  And  his  name  —  's  name  was  Vincent  Mar- 
bridge!  Wasn't  it?" 

He  thrust  his  inflamed  face  close  to  hers,  leering 
wickedly. 

"  Marbridge !  "  Joan  echoed  blankly. 

"  Vincent  Marbridge  —  tha's  the  feller  ?t  give  you 
the  ring.  He  's  the  feller  't  could  do  it,  too  —  got  all 
the  money  in  the  world  —  enough  to  buy  dozens  'r  rings 
—  enough  to  buy  you  all  them  good  clothes  you  got  hold 


270  JOAN    THURSDAY 

of  after  you  threw  me  down  and  before  I  was  ass  enough 
to  take  up  with  you  again!  A'  that,  you  were  a  fool  not 
to  get  more  outa  him." 

The  insult  ate  like  an  acid  into  the  pride  of  the  girl. 
She  flushed  crimson,  then  in  an  instant  paled  again.  Her 
eyes  grew  cold  and  hard. 

"That  will  do,"  she  said  bitterly.  "You've  said 
enough  —  too  much.  After  all  I  've  endured  from  you  — 
your  drunkenness,  your  —  " 

There  was  a  maniac  glare  in  the  eyes  of  the  man  as  he 
thrust  his  face  still  closer. 

"  And  what  '11  you  do,  eh  ? "  he  shouted  violently. 
"What '11  you  do?" 

She  turned  her  face  aside,  in  disgust  of  his  reeking 
breath. 

"  And  what  '11  you  do  ?    Tell  me  that !  " 

"I'll  leave  you  —  " 

"  You  betcha  life  you  '11  leave  me.  I  knew  that  before 
you  come  into  this  room !  " 

"  And  I  'm  sorry  I  did  n't  go  long  ago  —  " 

"  The  hell  you  are !  "  In  a  gust  of  uncontrollable 
frenzy,  Quard  struck  her  sharply  over  the  mouth.  "  You 
go  —  d'  you  hear  ?  —  you  damn' " 

In  blind  fury  Joan  flung  herself  upon  him,  sobbing, 
biting,  scratching,  kicking.  He  reeled  back  before  that 
unexpected  assault,  then,  sobered  a  trifle  by  its  vicious- 
ness,  caught  her  wrists,  held  her  helpless  for  an  instant, 
and  threw  her  violently  from  him.  She  fell  to  her  knees, 
lurched  over  on  her  side.  .  .  . 

The  door  slammed:   he  was  gone. 

She  knew  the  man  too  well  not  to  know  he  would  make 
instantly  for  the  nearest  bar ;  the  only  question  was  what 
guise  intoxication  would  assume  in  him,  this  time.  It  was 
possible  that  he  would  drink  himself  raving  mad  and  re- 
turn fit  for  murder. 

She  must  make  her  escape  with  all  possible  expedi- 
tion. 


The  door  slammed.     He  was  gone.     Page  270 


JOAN    THURSDAY  271 

Instantly  Joan  sat  up,  dried  her  eyes,  convulsively 
swallowed  her  sobs,  and  felt  of  her  bruised  mouth. 

Before  her  on  the  carpet  the  diamond  ring  winked 
sardonically  in  the  sunset  light. 

She  pondered  savagely  the  wide  and  deep  damnation 
it  had  wrought  in  her  life. 

It  seemed  impossible  that  only  a  few  minutes  had 
elapsed  since  she  had  entered  this  room,  an  affectionate, 
patient,  and  not  unhappy  wife.  Now  she  sifted  her  heart 
and  found  in  it  not  one  grain  of  the  love  it  had  once 
held  for  Quard.  This  alone  would  have  rendered  irrevo- 
cable her  decision  to  leave  him. 

The  thing  was  over  —  settled  —  finished. 

She  gave  a  gesture  of  finality. 

With  all  her  heart  she  hoped  that  the  sketch  would  go 
to  the  devil  without  her.  .  .  . 

Rising,  she  went  to  the  mirror,  to  stare  incredulously 
at  the  face  it  presented  for  her  inspection,  a  cruel  carica- 
ture, lined,  distorted,  blowsy,  stained  with  tears.  At  this 
vision,  hysteria  threatened  again. 

With  a  great  effort  she  fought  it  down,  and  controlled 
and  smoothed  out  the  muscles  of  her  face.  Now  she  was 
more  recognizable.  Even  her  mouth  was  not  seriously 
disfigured;  he  had  struck  with  the  flat  of  his  hand  only; 
her  lips  were  sore  and  slightly  but  not  markedly  swollen. 
A  veil  would  disguise  them  completely. 

At  the  wash-stand  she  devoted  some  very  valuable  mo- 
ments to  sopping  her  face  with  cold  water,  and  par- 
ticularly her  mouth  and  eyes.  The  treatment  toned 
down  the  inflammation  of  weeping,  rendered  her  flesh 
firm  and  cool  once  more,  and  left  her  with  a  feeling  of 
spiritual  refreshment,  with  nerves  again  under  control 
and  her  will  even  more  inalterably  fixed  than  before. 

Rouge  and  powder  completed  her  rejuvenescence. 

Turning  to  her  trunk,  she  took  out  the  tray  —  and 
paused  with  a  low  cry  of  consternation.  From  the  tum- 
bled and  disordered  state  of  its  contents,  it  was  plain 


272  JOAN    THURSDAY 

that,  having  discovered  the  ring,  Quard  had  searched 
diligently  for  further  confirmation  of  his  suspicions. 

With  quickening  breath,  the  girl  dropped  to  her  knees 
and  hastily  but  thoroughly  ransacked  and  turned  out  upon 
the  floor  all  her  belongings.  Within  a  brief  period  she 
satisfied  herself  of  one  appalling  fact:  Quard  had  not 
only  insulted  and  struck  her  and  cast  her  off  —  he  had 
stooped  to  rob  her.  Her  hands  were  tied:  she  had  not 
money  enough  to  leave  him. 

Probably,  with  the  low  cunning  and  fallacious  reason- 
ing of  dipsomania,  he  had  pouched  her  savings  with 
that  very  thought  in  mind.  Meaning  to  break  with  her, 
to  have  his  scene  and  satisfy  his  lust  for  brutality,  he 
had  also  planned  to  prevent  Joan's  leaving  the  cast  of 
"  The  Lie  "  until  a  successor  could  be  found  and  broken 
in.  Penniless  (he  had  argued)  she  would  be  obliged  to 
play  on,  at  least  until  Saturday,  to  earn  her  fare  back 
East. 

It  was  Quard's  practice  to  carry  his  money  in  large  bills 
folded  in  a  belt  of  oiled  silk  which  he  wore  buckled  round 
his  waist,  beneath  his  underclothing  —  with  a  smaller 
fund  for  running  expenses  in  a  leather  bill-fold  more 
accessibly  disposed.  But  Joan  (finding  a  money-belt 
uncomfortable  because  of  her  corsets)  had  adopted  the 
shiftless  plan  of  secreting  her  savings  in  a  pocket  con- 
trived for  that  purpose  in  an  old  underskirt.  And  since 
she  had  always  held  her  husband  rigidly  to  account  for 
her  individual  fifty  dollars  per  week,  she  had  managed 
thus  to  set  aside  about  three  hundred  dollars.  Unfor- 
tunately, it  had  been  their  habit  to  carry  duplicate  keys  to 
one  another's  luggage  by  way  of  provision  against  loss. 

So  that  now  she  was  left  with  less  than  twenty  dollars  in 
her  pocket-book. 

She  paced  the  floor  in  wrathful  meditation,  pondering 
means  and  expedients.  Once  or  twice  she  noticed  the 
ring,  but  passed  it  several  times  before  she  paused,  picked 
it  up,  and  abstractedly  placed  it  on  her  finger. 


JOAN    THURSDAY  273 

It  did  not  once  occur  to  her  that  she  could  raise  money 
by  hypothecating  the  jewel  at  a  pawn-shop:  by  hook  or 
crook  she  was  determined  to  regain  her  own  money.  She 
was  wondering  what  good  it  would  do  her  to  threaten 
Quard  with  arrest.  Had  a  wife  any  right  to  her  earn- 
ings, under  the  law  ? 

After  a  time,  she  opened  her  handbag,  found  her 
personal  bunch  of  keys,  and  unlocked  her  husband's 
trunk.  Her  pains,  however,  went  for  nothing;  she  in- 
vestigated diligently  every  pocket  of  his  clothing  without 
discovering  a  piece  of  money  of  any  description.  But 
one  thing  she  did  find  to  make  her  thoughtful  —  Quard's 
revolver.  .  .  . 

Removing  this  last,  she  relocked  the  trunk  and  rang 
for  a  bell-boy.  Then  she  put  the  weapon  on  the  bureau 
and  covered  it  with  her  hat. 

The  youth  who  answered  had  an  intelligent  look.  Joan 
appraised  him  narrowly  before  trusting  him.  She  opened 
negotiations  with  a  dollar  tip. 

"  I  want  you  to  find  my  husband  for  me,"  she  said. 
"  If  he  's  anywhere  around  the  hotel,  he  '11  probably  be  in 
the  bar.  But  look  everywhere,  and  then  come  and  tell 
me.  You  needn't  say  anything  to  him.  I  just  want  to 
know  where  he  is.  Do  you  understand  ?  " 

"  Yes,  ma'm." 

"  You  'd  know  him  if  you  saw  him  —  Mr.  Quard,  the 
actor  ?  " 

"  Yes,  ma'm." 

"That's  all.  Hurry." 

As  soon  as  the  boy  was  gone  she  turned  again  to  her 
luggage,  selecting  indispensable  garments  and  toilet  ar- 
ticles and  packing  them  in  a  suit-case.  By  the  time  a 
knock  sounded  again  upon  the  door,  she  had  the  case 
strapped  and  locked. 

"  He  ain't  nowhere  about  the  house,  ma'm,"  the  bell- 
boy reported.  "  He  was  in  the  bar  a  while,  but  he  's 
went  out." 


274  JOAN    THURSDAY 

Joan  nodded,  was  dumb  in  thought. 

"  Do  you  want  as  I  should  go  look  for  him,  ma'am  ?  " 

"  Can  you  leave  the  hotel  ?  "  Joan  asked  quickly. 

"  I  'm  just  going  off-duty  now,  ma'm ;  the  night  shift 
came  on  about  ten  minutes  ago,  at  six  o'clock." 

"  And  you  think  you  could  possibly  find  him  ?  " 

"  He  took  a  cab,  ma'm.  The  driver's  stand  is  in  front 
of  the  hotel.  If  I  can  find  him,  I  can  find  where  your 
husband  went.  Anyhow,  it  ain't  hard  to  follow  up  a 
gentleman  as  —  " 

"  As  drunk !  "  Joan  put  in  when  the  boy  hesitated. 

"  Yes,  ma'm." 

Joan  weighed  the  chance  distrustfully;  but  it  was  at 
least  a  chance,  and  this  was  no  time  to  be  careful.  Tak- 
ing a  five-dollar  gold-piece  from  her  scanty  store,  she  gave 
it  to  the  boy. 

"  Go  find  him,"  she  said.  "  And  if  he  seems  to  know 
what  he's  doing — just  hang  around  until  he  doesn't: 
he  won't  keep  you  waiting  long.  Then  bring  him  to  me. 
But  first  take  this  suit-case  down  to  the  Union  Ferry 
house,  check  it  in  the  baggage-room,  and  give  me  the 
check  when  you  bring  him  back.  And  —  don't  say  any- 
thing to  anybody." 

"  Yes,  ma'm  —  no,  ma'm." 

Supperless,  she  sat  down  to  wait,  Quard's  revolver 
ready  to  her  hand. 

Twilight  waned;  night  fell;  hours  passed.  Motion- 
less and  imperturbable,  Joan  waited  on,  the  tensity  of  her 
mood  betrayed  only  by  the  burning  of  her  baleful,  dan- 
gerous eyes. 

At  half-past  nine  a  noise  of  scuffling  feet,  gruff  voices 
and  heavy  breathing  in  the  hallway,  following  the  clash 
of  an  elevator  gate,  brought  her  to  her  feet.  Going  to 
the  bureau,  she  opened  a  drawer  and  put  the  revolver 
away. 

There  would  be  no  need  of  that,  now. 

Answering  a  knock,  she  threw  the  door  wide.     Two 


JOAN    THURSDAY  275 

porters  staggered  in,  one  with  the  shoulders,  one  with  the 
feet  of  Quard.  The  bell-boy  followed.  When  they  had 
lugged  to  the  bed  that  inert  and  insensate  thing  she  had 
once  loved,  Joan  tipped  the  men  and  they  departed.  The 
boy  lingered. 

"  Is  there  anything  more  I  can  do,  ma'm  ?  " 

"  Where  did  you  find  him  ?  " 

"  Down  on  the  Coast.  I  don't  know  what  would  n't  Ve 
happened  to  him  if  you  hadn't  sent  me  after  him.  He 
was  up  an  alley  —  had  been  stuck  up  by  a  couple  of 
strong-arms.  I  seen  'em  making  their  get-away  just  as 
I  come  in  sight." 

She  uttered  a  cry  of  despair :   "  Robbed  —  you  mean  ?  " 

"  Yes,  ma'm.    He  ain't  got  as  much 's  a  nickel  on  him." 

Overwhelmed,  Joan  sank  into  a  chair.  The  boy  avoided 
her  desolate  eyes;  he  was  a  little  afraid  she  might  want 
part  of  the  five  dollars  back. 

"  Had  n't  I  better  send  the  hotel  doctor  up,  ma'm  ?  " 

"  Perhaps,"  she  muttered  dully. 

"  Yes,  ma'm.  And  here 's  the  check  for  your  suit- 
case. Nothing  else  ?  Good  night,  ma'm." 

The  door  closed. 

Of  a  sudden,  Joan  jumped  up  and  ran  to  the  bed  in 
the  alcove. 

Quard's  condition  was  pitiable,  but  in  her  excited  no 
compassion.  His  face  was  pallid  as  a  death-mask  save 
on  one  cheek-bone,  where  there  was  an  angry  and  livid 
contusion.  His  hands  were  scratched,  bleeding,  and  filthy, 
his  clothing  begrimed  and  torn,  his  pockets  turned  inside 
out.  He  seemed  scarcely  to  breathe,  and  a  thin  froth 
flecked  his  slack  and  swollen  lips. 

With  feverish  haste  she  unbuttoned  his  shirt  and 
trousers  and  tugged  at  his  undershirt.  Then  she  sobbed 
aloud,  a  short,  dry  sob  of  relief.  She  had  discovered 
the  money-belt.  In  another  minute  she  had  unbuckled 
and  withdrawn  it  from  his  body.  She  took  it  to  the  other 
room,  to  the  light,  and  hastily  undid  its  fastenings. 


276  JOAN    THURSDAY 

There  were  perhaps  two  dozen  fresh,  new  bills,  for  the 
most  part  of  large  denominations,  folded  once  length- 
wise to  fit  into  the  narrow  silken  tube;  but  someone 
knocked  before  she  found  time  to  reckon  up  their  sum. 

Hastily  cramming  the  money,  together  with  the  tell-tale 
belt,  into  her  handbag,  Joan  took  a  deep  breath  and  said 
"Come  in!" 

There  entered  a  grave  man  of  middle-age,  carrying  a 
physician's  satchel. 

He  said,  with  a  slight  inclination  of  his  head :  "  Mrs. 
Quard,  I  believe  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  Joan  gasped.  She  nodded  toward  the  alcove : 
"  Your  patient  'a  in  there." 

He  murmured  some  acknowledgment,  turning  away  to 
the  bedside.  For  several  minutes  he  worked  steadily  over 
the  drunkard.  While  she  waited,  her  wits  awhirl,  Joan 
mechanically  pinned  on  her  hat. 

Presently  the  physician  stepped  back  into  the  room, 
removed  his  coat,  turned  back  his  cuffs,  and  produced  a 
pocket  hypodermic.  With  narrowing  eyes  he  recognized 
Joan's  preparations  for  the  street. 

"  Is  he  all  right,  doctor  ? "  she  said  with  a  feint  of 
doubt  and  fear. 

"  He  's  in  pretty  bad  shape,  but  I  guess  we  can  pull 
him  round,  all  right.  But  I  need  your  help.  You  were 
going  out  ? " 

She  met  his  eyes  steadily.  "  I  was  only  waiting  to 
hear  how  he  was.  I  've  got  to  hurry  off  to  the  theatre. 
I  'm  late  now.  If  we  miss  the  performance  tonight,  we 
may  lose  our  booking.  And  he  's  just  been  held  up  — 
all  we  've  got 's  what 's  coming  to  us  next  Saturday." 

"  I  see.     And  you  can  do  without  him  ?  " 

"  His  understudy  '11  take  his  part  —  we  '11  manage 
somehow." 

"  Then  I  am  afraid  I  shall  have  to  call  in  assistance  — 
a  trained  nurse." 

"  Do,  please,  doctor." 


JOAN    THURSDAY  277 

"  Very  well." 

He  moved  toward  the  telephone. 

"  I  '11  be  back  in  about  an  hour." 

"  Very  well,  Mrs.  Quard." 

He  stared,  perplexed,  at  the  door,  when  she  had  shut 
it.  ... 

Avoiding  the  elevator  and  lobby,  she  slipped  down  the 
stairs  and  through  a  side  door  to  the  street. 

In  ten  minutes  she  was  at  the  Union  Ferry. 

Within  an  hour  she  was  in  Oakland,  purchasing  through 
tickets  for  her  transcontinental  flight. 


XXVII 

WHEN  lie  had  finished  breakfast,  Matthias  lighted  a 
pipe,  and  setting  his  feet  anew  in  the  groove  they  had 
worn  diagonally  from  door  to  window,  began  his  matu- 
tinal tramp  toward  inspiration. 

But  this  morning  found  his  brain  singularly  sluggish: 
thoughts  would  not  come;  or  if  they  showed  themselves 
at  all,  it  was  only  to  peer  mischievously  at  him  round  some 
distant  corner  which,  when  turned,  discovered  only  an 
empty  impasse. 

Distressed,  he  tamped  down  his  pipe,  ran  long  fingers 
through  his  hair,  and  wrapped  himself  in  clouds  of  smoke. 
Then  a  breath  of  cool,  sweet  air  fanned  his  cheek,  and  he 
looked  round  in  sharp  annoyance.  It  was  like  that  fool 
maid  to  leave  the  windows  open  and  freeze  him  to 
death !  And  truly  enough,  they  were  both  wide  open  from 
top  to  bottom ;  though,  for  all  that,  he  was  n't  freezing. 
And  outside  there  was  a  bright  crimson  border  of  potted 
geraniums  on  the  iron-railed  balcony.  He  had  n't  no- 
ticed them  before;  Madame  Duprat  must  have  set  them 
out  before  he  was  up.  Curious  whim  of  hers!  Cu- 
rious weather! 

Disliking  inconsistencies,  he  stopped  in  one  of  the  win- 
dows to  investigate  these  unseasonable  phenomena. 

In  one  corner  of  the  back-yard  a  dilapidated  bundle  of 
fur  and  bones,  conforming  in  general  with  a  sardonic 
Post-Impressionist's  candid  opinion  of  a  tom-cat,  lay 
blinking  lazily  in  a  patch  of  warm  yellow  sunlight. 

In  the  next  back-yard  a  ridiculous  young  person  in 
bare-legs,  blue  denim  overalls  and  a  small  red  sweater, 


JOAN    THURSDAY  279 

was  industriously  turning  up  the  earth  with  a  six-inch 
trowel,  and  chanting  cheerfully  to  himself  an  improvisa- 
tion in  honour  of  his  garden  that  was  to  be. 

At  an  open  window  across  the  way  a  public-spirited  and 
extremely  pretty  young  woman  appeared  with  a  towel 
pinned  round  her  shoulders  and  let  down  her  hair,  a 
shimmering  cascade  of  gold  for  the  sun's  rays  to  wanton 
with  and,  incidentally,  to  dry. 

Somewhere  at  a  distance  a  cracked  old  piano-organ  was 
romping  and  giggling  rapturously  through  the  syncopated 
measures  of  Tin  Pan  Alley's  latest  "  rag." 

A  vision  drifted  before  Matthias'  eyes,  of  the  green 
slopes  of  Tanglewood,  the  white  chateau  on  its  windy 
headland,  the  ineffable  blue  of  the  Sound  beyond.  .  .  . 

Incredulous,  he  turned  to  consult  his  calendar:  the 
day  was  Wednesday,  the  seventeenth  of  April. 

It  was  true,  then:  almost  without  his  knowledge  the 
bleak  and  barren  Winter  had  worn  away  and  Spring  had 
stolen  upon  Town,  flaunting,  extravagant,  shy  and  seduc- 
tive, irresistible  Spring.  .  .  . 

For  a  little  Matthias  held  back  in  doubt,  with  reluc- 
tant thoughts  of  his  work.  Then  —  all  in  a  breath  —  he 
caught  up  hat  and  stick,  slammed  the  door  behind  him, 
and  blundered  forth  to  fulfill  his  destiny.  .  .  . 

She  was  seated  on  a  bench,  in  a  retired  spot  sheltered 
from  the  breeze,  open  to  the  sun,  when  Matthias,  having 
swung  round  the  upper  reservoir,  came  at  full  stride 
down  the  West  Drive,  his  blood  romping,  his  eyes  aglow, 
warm  colour  in  his  face:  for  the  first  time  in  half 
a  year  feeling  himself  again,  Matthias  the  lover  of  the 
open  skies  divorced  from  Matthias  of  the  midnight  lamp 
and  the  scored  and  intricate  manuscripts  —  that  Matthias 
whom  the  world  rejected. 

At  a  word,  her  companion  rose  and  moved  to  intercept 
him;  and  at  the  sound  of  his  name,  Matthias  paused, 
wondering  who  she  could  be,  this  strange,  sweet-faced 
woman,  plainly  dressed. 


280  JOAN    THURSDAY 

"  Yes  ?  "  he  said,  lifting  his  hat.     "  I  am  Mr.  Matthias 

—  yes  —  " 

"  Mrs.  Marbridge  would  like  to  speak  to  you." 

His  gaze  veered  quickly  in  the  direction  indicated  by 
her  brief  nod.  He  saw  Venetia  waiting,  and  immediately 
went  to  her,  in  his  surprise  forgetful  of  the  woman  who 
had  accosted  him.  This  last  moved  slowly  in  the  other 
direction  and  sat  down  out  of  ear-shot. 

"  This  is  awfully  good  of  you,  Venetia,"  he  said,  bend- 
ing over  her  hand.  "  I  did  n't  see  you,  of  course  —  was 
thinking  of  something  else  —  " 

"  But  I  was  thinking  of  you,"  she  said.  "  I  've  been 
wanting  to  see  you  for  a  long  time,  Jack." 

"  Surely  Helena  could  have  told  you  where  to  find 
me.  .  .  ." 

"  I  knew  we  'd  run  across  one  another,  somehow,  some- 
where, sometime  —  today  or  tomorrow,  without  fail.  So 
I  was  content  to  do  without  the  offices  of  Helena.  Do 
sit  down.  I  want  so  much  to  talk  to  you." 

"  Most  completely  yours  to  command,"  he  said  lightly, 
and  took  the  place  beside  her. 

But  his  heart  was  on  his  lips  and  in  his  eyes,  and  Vene- 
tia was  far  from  blind. 

"  Then  tell  me  about  yourself,"  she  asked.  "  It 's  been 
so  long  since  I  Ve  had  any  news !  " 

"  Is  it  possible  ?  I  should  have  imagined  my  doting 
aunt  —  " 

She  interrupted  with  a  slight,  negative  smile  and  shake 
of  her  head :  "  Helena  does  n't  approve  of  me,  you  know, 
and  of  late  there  has  been  a  decided  coolness  between 
the  families.  I  'm  afraid  George  fell  out  with  Vincent 
for  some  reason  —  not  too  hard  to  guess,  perhaps." 

He  looked  away,  colouring  with  embarrassment. 

"  So,"  she  pursued  evenly  —  "  about  yourself:  are  you 
married  yet  ? " 

Matthias  started,  laughed  frankly.  "  You  did  n't  know 
about  that,  either  ?  .  .  .  Well,  it 's  true  even  Helena 


JOAN    THURSDAY  281 

could  n't  have  told  you  much,  for  I  told  her  nothing.  .  .  . 

No,  I  'm  neither  married,  nor  like  to  be." 
"  She  was  so  very  sweet  and  pretty  —  " 
"  Joan  was  wholly  charming,"  he  agreed  gravely,  "  but 

—  well,  I  fancy  it  was  inevitable.    We  were  lucky  enough 
to  be  obliged  to  endure  a  separation  of  some  weeks  before, 
instead  of  after,  marriage;    and  so  we  had  time  to  think. 
At  least,  she  must  have  foreseen  the  mistake  we  were  on 
the  point  of  making,  for  the  break  was  her  own  doing 

—  not  mine." 

"  You  think  it  would  have  been  a  mistake  ? " 
"  Oh,  unquestionably.     I  confess  I  'd  not  have  known 
it,  probably,  until  too  late,  if  she  had  n't  made  me  think 
when  she  threw  me  over.    I  hope  it  does  n't  sound  caddish 

—  but  I  was  conscious  of  a  distinct  sense  of  relief  when 
I  got  back  from  California  and  found  she  'd  cleared  out 
without  leaving  me  a  line." 

"  I  think  I  understand.  And  did  you  never  hear  from 
her?" 

"  Not  from  —  by  accident,  of  her.  She  was  predestined 
for  the  stage  —  I  can  see  that  clearly  now,  though  I 
objected  then.  She  was  offered  a  chance  during  my 
absence,  jumped  at  it,  and  made  a  sort  of  a  half-way  hit 
in  a  very  successful  sketch  which,  oddly  enough,  I  hap- 
pened to  have  written  —  under  a  pseudonym.  It  had 
been  kicking  round  my  agent's  office  for  a  year ;  he  did  n't 
believe  in  it  any  more  than  I  did;  and  I  disbelieved  in 
it  hard  enough  to  be  ashamed  to  put  my  own  name  to  it. 
That 's  often  the  way  with  a  fellow's  work ;  one  always 
believes  in  the  cripples,  you  know.  .  .  .  Well,  some  actor 
chanced  to  get  hold  of  the  'script  one  day,  fell  in  love 
with  it  and  put  it  on  with  Joan  as  his  leading  woman.  If 
it  had  been  anybody  else's  sketch,  I  'd  never  have  known 
what  became  of  her,  probably.  As  it  was,  I  knew  nothing 
until  I  got  back  from  the  Coast.  ...  I  believe  they  got 
married  very  shortly  after  it  was  produced ;  and  now 
they  're  playing  it  all  over  the  country.  Odd,  is  n't  it  ?  " 


282  JOAN    THURSDAY 

"  Very,"  Venetia  smiled.  "  And  so  your  heart  was  n't 
broken  ? " 

He  shook  his  head  and  laughed :   "  No !  " 

But  a  spasm  of  pain  shot  through  his  eyes  and  deceived 
the  woman  a  little  longer. 

"  And  what  have  you  been  doing  ?  "  she  pursued,  mean- 
ing to  distract  him.  "  I  mean,  your  work  ?  " 

He  shrugged.  "  Oh,  I  've  had  an  average  luckless  year. 
To  begin  with,  Rideout  fell  down  on  his  production  of 
'  The  Jade  God '  —  the  only  time  it  ever  had  a  chance  to 
get  over  —  and  a  man  named  Algerson  bought  his  con- 
tract and  put  it  on  at  his  stock  theatre  in  Los  Angeles. 
That 's  why  I  went  out  there  —  to  see  it  butchered." 

"  It  failed  ?  " 

"  Extravagantly !  " 

"  But  did  n't  you  once  have  a  great  deal  of  confidence 
in  it?" 

"  Every  play  is  a  valuable  property  until  it 's  pro- 
duced," he  answered,  smiling.  "  This  one  was  killed  by 
its  production.  Nothing  was  right:  it  needed  scenery, 
and  what  they  gave  it  had  served  a  decade  in  stock;  it 
needed  actors,  and  what  actors  were  accidentally  permitted 
to  get  into  the  cast  got  the  wrong  roles ;  finally,  it  needed 
intelligent  stage  direction,  and  that  was  supplied  by  the 
star,  whose  idea  of  a  good  play  is  one  in  which  he  speaks 
everybody's  lines  and  his  own.  Then  they  rewrote  most 
of  the  best  scenes  and  botched  them  horribly." 

"  You  could  n't  stop  them  ?  " 

"  When  I  attempted  to  interfere,  I  was  told  civilly  to 
go  to  the  devil.  Under  my  contract,  I  could  have  stopped 
them:  but  that  meant  suing  out  an  injunction,  which  in 
turn  meant  putting  up  a  bond,  and  —  I  did  n't  have  the 
money." 

"  I  'm  so  sorry,  Jack !  " 

"  Oh,  it 's  all  in  the  game.  I  learned  something,  at 
least.  But  the  greatest  harm  it  did  me  was  to  sap  the 
faith  of  managers  here.  One  man  —  Wylie  —  who  was 


JOAN    THURSDAY  283 

under  contract  to  produce  my  '  Tomorrow's  People/  paid 
me  on  January  first  a  forfeit  of  five  hundred  dollars  rather 
than  run  the  risk  after  '  The  Jade  God.'  " 

"  And  so  you  lost  both  plays  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no ;  I  still  have  '  Tomorrow's  People/  and  only 
a  short  time  ago  signed  up  with  a  manager  who  is  n't 
afraid  of  his  shadow.  We  '11  put  it  on  next  Autumn." 

"  And  you  believe  in  that,  too  ? " 

"  I  know  it  will  go,"  Matthias  asserted  with  level  con- 
fidence. "  It 's  only  a  question  of  intelligence  at  the  pro- 
ducing end  —  and  I  've  arranged  to  get  that." 

"  And  meanwhile  —  you  've  been  working  ?  " 

"  Oh  "  —  he  spread  out  his  hands  —  "  one  does  n't  stop, 
you  know.  It 's  too  interesting !  " 

And  then  he  laughed  again.  "  But,  you  see,  you  flatter 
a  fellow  into  talking  his  head  off  about  himself !  Forgive 
me,  and  let  me  do  a  little  cross-examining.  How  are  you  ? 
And  what  have  you  been  doing?  You  —  you  know, 
Venetia  —  you  're  looking  more  exquisitely  pretty  than 
ever !  " 

And  so  she  was  —  more  strangely  lovely  than  ever  in 
all  the  long  span  of  their  friendship:  with  a  deeper 
radiance  in  her  face,  a  clearer,  more  translucent  pallor, 
in  her  eyes  a  splendour  that  lent  new  dignity  to  their 
violet-shadowed  mystery. 

"  I  'm  glad  of  that,"  she  said  quietly.  She  folded 
listless  hands  in  her  lap,  her  eyes  seeking  distances.  "  I  'm 
going  to  be  very  happy  ...  I  think  .  .  ." 

He  looked  up  sharply. 

That  she  was  n't  happy  now,  he  could  well  understand : 
that  Marbridge  was  behaving  badly  was  something  rather 
too  broadly  published  by  the  very  publicity  of  his  methods. 
Marriage  had  not  been  permitted  to  interfere  —  at  least, 
not  after  his  return  from  Europe  —  with  the  ordinary 
tenor  of  his  bachelor  ways.  Matthias  himself  had  seen 
him  not  infrequently  in  theatres  and  restaurants,  but  only 
once  in  company  with  Venetia  —  most  often  he  had  been 


284  JOAN    THURSDAY 

dancing  attendance  upon  a  Mrs.  Cardrow:  she  who  had 
given  her  lips  to  Matthias,  thinking  him  Marbridge,  that 
long-ago  night  at  Tanglewood.  She  was  said  to  be  stage- 
struck  ;  and  Marbridge  was  rumoured  to  be  deeply,  though 
quietly,  involved  in  the  financing  of  certain  theatrical 
enterprises. 

Surely,  then,  Venetia  must  know  what  everybody  knew, 
and  be  unhappy  in  that  knowledge. 

But  now  she  was  so  calmly  confident  that  she  was 
"  going  to  be  happy  "  ! 

He  wondered  if  she  were  contemplating  divorce.  .  .  . 

And  then  in  a  flash  he  understood.  That  woman  who 
had  stopped  him  was  not  of  Venetia's  caste ;  if  he  guessed 
not  wildly,  she  was  a  nurse.  And  \renetia  afoot  instead 
of  in  her  limousine  .  .  . 

She  turned  her  eyes  to  his,  smiling  with  a  certain 
diffident,  sweet  sedateness.  "  You  did  n't  know, 
Jack?" 

He  shook  his  head,  looking  quickly  away. 

"  But  you  Ve  guessed  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  he  replied  in  a  low  voice. 

Her  hand  fell  lightly  over  his  for  a  single  instant. 
"  Then  be  glad  for  me,  Jack,"  she  begged  gently.  "  It 's 
—  it 's  compensation." 

"  I  understand,"  he  said,  "  and  I  'm  truly  very  glad. 
It 's  kind  of  you  to  —  to  tell  me,  Venetia." 

"  It  changes  everything,"  she  said  pensively :  "  all  my 
world  is  changed,  and  I  am  a  new  strange  woman,  seeing 
it  with  new  eyes.  I  have  learned  so  much  —  and  in  so 
short  a  time  —  I  can  hardly  believe  it.  To  think,  it 's 
not  a  year  since  that  time  at  Tanglewood  —  !  " 

"  Please !  "  he  begged. 

"  Oh,  I  did  n't  mean  to  hurt  you,  Jack.  But  it 's 
that  I  wanted  to  talk  to  you  about.  You  won't  mind, 
when  you  understand,  as  I  have  learned  to  under- 
stand. ...  I  tell  you,  I  'm  altogether  another  woman. 
Marriage  is  like  learning  to  live  in  a  foreign  land,  but 


JOAN    THURSDAY  285 

motherhood  is  another  world.  I  find  it  difficult  to  realize 
Venetia  of  a  year  ago :  she  's  like  some  strange  creature 
I  once  knew  but  never  quite  understood.  And  yet,  little 
as  I  understood  her,  I  can  make  excuses  for  her:  I  know 
her  impulses  were  not  bad.  I  know,  better  than  she 
knew  .  .  .  she  loved  you,  Jack." 

"  You  must  not  say  that,  Venetia !  " 

"  But  it 's  true,  my  dear,  most  true,"  she  insisted  in 
her  voice  of  gentle  magic.  "  The  rest  .  .  .  was  just  mad- 
ness, the  sort  of  madness  that  some  men  have  the  power  to 

—  to  kindle  in  women.    It 's  a  deadly  power,  very  terrible, 
and  they  —  who  have  it  —  use  it  as  carelessly  as  children 
playing  with  matches  and  gunpowder  —  " 

"  Oh,  I  understand,  Venetia,  I  understand !  Don't  —  " 
"  No  —  let  me  tell  you.  I  've  got  to,  Jack.  I  've 
had  this  so  long  in  my  heart  to  tell  you !  .  .  .  You  must 
be  patient  with  me,  ,this  once,  and  listen.  .  .  .  You  must 
know  that  I  loved  you  then  when  I  —  ran  to  you  —  threw 
myself  into  your  arms  —  made  you  ask  me  to  marry  you 
and  promised  I  would  and  —  and  thought  that  I  was  safe 
from  him  because  of  my  promise.  But  I  did  n't  know 
myself  —  nor  him.  He  seemed  able  to  make  his  will  my 
law  so  easily  —  so  strangely !  .  .  .  Even  when  I  ran  away 
with  him,  I  knew  that  happiness  could  never  come  of 
it.  ...  It  was  just  the  madness  ...  I  couldn't  help 
myself  ...  I  just  could  not  help  myself.  .  .  .  And  then 

—  ah,  but  I  have  paid  for  my  madness  —  many  times 
over!  .  .  ." 

For  the  moment  he  could  n't  trust  himself  to  speak.  The 
woman  bent  forward  to  gain  a  glimpse  of  his  half-averted 
face,  and  searched  it  anxiously  with  her  haunted  eyes. 

"You  do  understand,  Jack?  .  .  .  You  for- 
give .  .  .?" 

"  There  is  n't  any  question  of  forgiveness,"  lie  said. 
"  And  I  always  understood  —  half-way.  You  know  that 

—  you  must  have  known  it,  or  you  could  n't  have  said  — 
what  you  have  —  to  me." 


286  JOAN    THURSDAY 

The  woman  laughed  a  little,  tender,  broken  laugh. 

"  I  am  so  glad !  "  she  said  softly.  "  Perhaps  it 's 
wrong.  .  .  .  But  you  've  made  me  a  little  happier.  I 
have  needed  so  desperately  someone  to  confess  to  —  some- 
one on  whose  sympathy  I  could  count.  And  —  Jack 
—  the  only  one  in  the  world  was  you.  .  .  .  You  — 
you  've  helped." 

She  rose,  holding  out  both  hands  to  him,  and  as  he 
took  them  and  held  them  tight  he  saw  that  her  lovely 
eyes  were  wide  and  dim  with  tears. 

"  You  've  proved  my  faith  in  you,"  she  said  —  "  my 
gentle  man  —  my  knight  sans  peur  et  sans  reproche !  " 

He  bent  his  head  to  her  hands,  but  before  his  lips  could 
touch  them,  very  gently  she  drew  them  away,  and  turned 
and  left  him. 

Bareheaded  and  wondering,  for  a  long  time  he  stood 
staring  at  the  spot  where,  in  company  with  the  nurse,  she 
had  disappeared. 


XXVIII 

As  soon  as  the  porter  had  made  up  the  lower  berth  in 
the  section  Joan  had  reserved  for  her  sole  accommodation 

—  in  spite  of  the  strain  of  thrift  ingrained  in  her  nature 

—  she  retired  to  it,  buttoned  securely  the  heavy  plush 
portieres,  and  prepared  for  rest  by  reducing  herself  to 
that  state  of  semi-undress  in  which  she  had  learned  to 
travel  by  night.     Then,  by  the  light  of  the  small  electric 
lamp  above  her  pillow,  she  turned  out  the  contents  of  her 
handbag  and  counted  the  money  she  had  stolen  from 
Quard. 

The  sum  of  it,  more  than  twenty-one  hundred  dollars, 
staggered  her.  She  had  n't  dreamed  that  Quard  possessed 
so  much  ready  cash. 

Carefully  folding  the  bills  of  larger  denomination  into 
a  neat,  flat  packet,  she  wrapped  them  in  a  handkerchief 
and  hid  them  in  the  hollow  of  her  bosom,  secured  by  a 
safety-pin  to  her  ribbed  silk  undervest.  The  remainder, 
more  than  enough  to  cover  all  ordinary  expenses  en  route 
to  New  York,  she  disposed  of  more  accessibly,  half  in 
her  handbag,  half  in  one  of  her  stockings. 

Then  extinguishing  the  light,  she  lay  back,  but  not  to 
sleep.  The  pressure  of  her  emotions  was  too  strong  to 
let  her  lose  touch  with  consciousness.  As  a  general  rule, 
sleeping-cars  had  no  terrors  for  Joan;  never  a  nervous 
woman,  her  thoroughly  sound  and  healthy  organization 
permitted  her  to  sleep  almost  at  will,  even  under  such 
discouraging  circumstances  as  those  provided  by  modern 
railway  accommodations.  But  that  night  she  lay  awake 
till  dawn  flushed  the  windows  with  its  wash  of  grey,  awake 
and  staring  wide  of  eye  into  the  gloom  of  her  section, 


288  JOAN    THURSDAY 

listening  to  the  snores  of  conscienceless  neighbours,  and 
thinking,  thinking  —  thinking  endlessly  and  acutely. 

But  they  were  thoughts  singularly  uncoloured  by  re- 
morse for  what  she  had  done  or  fear  of  its  consequences. 

She  was  not  in  the  least  sorry  she  had  taken  Quard's 
money;  she  was  glad.  The  mere  amount  of  it  was  proof 
enough  for  Joan  that  her  husband  had  lied  to  her  about 
the  earnings  of  the  sketch,  had  lied  from  the  very  be- 
ginning; otherwise  he  could  by  no  means  have  laid  by 
so  much  in  the  term  of  their  booking  to  date.  And  for 
that,  he  deserved  to  suffer.  She  was  only  sorry  he  might 
not  be  made  to  understand  how  heavily  he  was  paying 
for  those  months  of  deception.  But  that  was  something 
Quard  would  never  know:  with  the  story  of  the  bell-boy 
he  must  be  content;  he  must  go  through  life  placing  the 
blame  of  his  misfortune  upon  the  heads  of  those  nameless 
"  stick-up  men  "  of  the  Barbary  Coast. 

Nor  was  he  likely  to  suffer  otherwise.  Joan  was  con- 
fident the  man  would  manage  somehow  to  find  his  feet 
financially,  almost  as  soon  as  physically.  A  telegram  to 
his  agent,  Boskerk,  would  bring  him  aid  if  all  else  failed ; 
the  play  was  too  constant  an  earner  of  heavy  commis- 
sions for  Boskerk  to  let  it  fall  by  the  wayside  for  lack 
of  a  few  hundred  dollars.  So  was  it  too  strong  a  "  draw  " 
on  the  vaudeville  circuits  to  be  blacklisted  and  barred  by 
managers  because  of  the  temporary  break-down :  something 
which  Quard  would  readily  explain  and  excuse  (and  Joan 
could  imagine  how  persuasively)  with  his  moving  yarn  of 
foot-pads  and  knock-out  drops.  Nor  would  it  be  more  than 
a  temporary  break-down;  with  Quard  restored  to  his 
senses,  the  absence  of  the  leading  woman  would  prove 
merely  a  negligible  check.  Joan  entertained  no  illusions 
as  to  her  indispensability :  once,  in  Denver,  when  she 
had  been  out  of  the  cast  for  two  consecutive  performances, 
suffering  with  an  ulcerated  tooth,  another  actress  had 
gone  on  and  actually  read  the  part  from  manuscript  with- 
out materially  lessening  the  dramatic  effect  of  the  playlet 


JOAN    THURSDAY  289 

as  a  whole.  Other  women  by  the  score  could  be  found 
to  fill  her  place  acceptably  enough,  if  few  as  handsomely 
(Joan  soothed  her  pride  with  this  reservation).  "  The 
Lie "  would  go  on  its  conquering  way  without  her  — 
never  fear! 

And  Quard  ?  Joan  curled  a  lip :  he  would  n't  pine 
away  for  her.  She  had  come  to  know  too  well  his  shallow 
bag  of  tricks;  and  life  to  him  was  not  life  if  he  lacked 
one  before  whose  dazzled  vision  he  could  air  his  graces 
and  accomplishments  —  strut  and  crow  and  trail  a  hand- 
some wing  in  the  dust.  Looking  back  she  could  see  very 
clearly,  now,  how  love  had  waned  as  soon  as  lust  was 
sated  in  the  man.  That  night  in  Cincinnati  had  been 
the  turning  point:  he  had  refrained  from  drink  only  as 
long  as  his  wife  continued  to  intoxicate  his  senses. 

And  Joan  ?  ...  In  the  stifling  gloom  of  her  curtained 
section  the  girl  stretched  luxuriously,  breathed  deep,  and 
smiled  a  secret,  enigmatic  smile.  No  more  than  he,  would 
she  waste  herself  away  with  grief  and  longing.  She  was 
no  longer  another's  but  now  her  own  mistress :  a  free  ad- 
venturer, by  the  gold  band  upon  her  finger  licensed  to 
cruise  with  letters  of  marque. 

Shortly  before  sunrise  she  fell  asleep,  still  smiling,  and 
slept  on  sweetly  well  into  mid-morning.  Then,  rising, 
she  refreshed  herself  in  the  wash-room,  and  went  to  a  late 
breakfast  with  countenance  as  clear  and  firm  and  bright 
as  if  she  had  never  known  a  wakeful  hour. 

The  eyes  of  men  followed  her  wherever  she  moved, 
and  when  she  was  seated  alone  in  her  section,  dreaming 
over  a  magazine  or  gazing  pensively  out  of  the  window, 
men  discovered  errands  that  took  them  to  and  fro  in  her 
vicinity  more  often  than  was  warranted  by  any  encourage- 
ment she  gave  them.  For  she  gave  them  none,  she  ignored 
them  every  one.  She  was  through  with  Man  for  good 
and  all! 

It  was  a  brand  new  role,  and  to  play  it  diverted  her 
immensely  for  the  time  being.  .  .  . 


JOAN    THURSDAY 

She  spent  the  greater  part  of  her  waking  hours,  during 
the  next  few  days,  planning  what  she  would  do  with  all 
that  money.  Clothes,  of  course,  figured  ever  first  in  these 
projections,  and  then  a  suite  of  rooms  at  some  ostentatious 
hotel,  and  taxicabs  when  she  went  out  to  call  on  managers. 
How  many  times  had  n't  she  heard  Maizie  Dean  solemnly 
aifirm  that  "  a  swell  front  does  more  to  put  you  in  right 
than  anything  else,  with  them  lowlifers  "  ? 

And  again  she  was  pleasurably  diverted  by  a  vision  of 
herself,  extravagantly  gowned,  returning  to  recount  her 
Odyssey  to  an  admiring  audience  composed  of  Ma,  Edna, 
and,  perhaps,  Butch ;  at  the  close  of  which  she  would  dis- 
tribute largesse,  not  forgetting  to  return  Butch's  loan 
with  open-handed  interest,  and  go  on  her  way  rejoicing, 
pursued  by  envious  benedictions.  .  .  . 

New  York  received  her  like  a  bridegroom,  clothed  in 
April  sunshine  as  in  a  suit  of  golden  mail,  amazingly 
splendid  and  joyous.  After  that  weary  grind  of  inland 
towns  and  cities,  differing  one  from  another  only  in  de- 
grees of  griminess,  greyness,  and  dullness,  New  York 
seemed  Paradise  Regained  to  Joan.  She  had  not  believed 
it  could  seem  so  beautiful,  so  magnificent,  so  sensuously 
seductive. 

In  the  exaltation  of  that  delirious  hour  she  plunged 
madly  into  a  department  store  near  the  Pennsylvania  Sta- 
tion, even  before  securing  lodgings,  and  bought  herself  a 
pair  of  cheap  white  kid  gloves,  simply  for  the  sheer  volup- 
tuousness of  possessing  once  again  something  newly  pur- 
chased in  New  York. 

It  was  the  beginning  of  an  orgy.  Joan  had  n't  thought 
how  shabby  and  travel-worn  she  must  seem  until  she 
donned  those  fresh  and  staring  gloves  and  saw  them  in 
relief  against  the  wrinkled  and  dusty  garments  she  had 
worn  across  the  continent. 

Thoughtful,  she  sought  a  nearby  mirror  and  looked 
herself  over,  then  shook  her  head  and  turned  away  to 
check  her  suit-case  at  the  parcels  desk  and  surrender  her- 


JOAN    THURSDAY  291 

self  body  and  mind  to  the  sweet  dissipation  of  clothing 
herself  afresh  from  top  to  toe.  .  .  . 

But  first  of  all  she  visited  the  hairdressing  and  mani- 
curing department:  she  meant  to  be  altogether  spick-and- 
span  before  venturing  forth  to  woo  and  win  anew  this  old 
and  misprized  lover,  her  New  York. 

It  was  the  head  saleswoman  of  the  suit  department  whose 
remote  disdain  led  Joan  deeper  into  extravagance. 

The  girl  had  selected  a  taffeta  costume  which,  while 
by  no  means  the  most  expensive  or  the  handsomest  in 
stock,  possessed  the  advantage  of  fitting  well  her  average 
figure,  requiring  no  alterations.  On  paying  for  it  she 
announced  her  desire  to  put  it  on  at  once  and  have  her 
old  suit  sent  home. 

"  Reully  ?  "  drawled  the  saleswoman,  disappointed  in 
her  efforts  to  induce  the  girl  to  buy  a  higher-priced  suit 
which  did  require  alterations.  Conjuring  a  pencil  from 
the  fastnesses  of  her  back-hair,  she  produced  an  order 
pad.  "  Miss  —  what  did  you  say  ?  Ah,  Thursday ! 
Thanks.  What  numba,  please  ?  7s  it  in  the  city  ?  " 

Joan  flushed,  but  controlled  her  impulse  to  wither  and 
blast  this  insolent  animal. 

"  The  Waldorf-Astoria,"  she  said  quietly  —  though 
never  once  had  she  ventured  within  the  doors  of  that  es- 
tablishment —  and  withdrew  in  triumph  to  make  her 
change  of  clothing. 

And  having  committed  herself  to  this  extent,  she  en- 
joyed ordering  everything  sent  to  that  hotel,  which  in 
her  as  yet  somewhat  naive  understanding  was  synonymous 
with  the  last  word  in  the  sybaritism  of  metropolitan 
life. 

Her  long  experience  on  the  road  had  served  thoroughly 
to  break  her  in  to  the  ways  of  hotels,  however,  and  she 
betrayed  no  diffidence  in  the  matter  of  approaching  the 
room-clerk  for  accommodations.  Nor  did  she,  apparently, 
find  anything  dismaying  in  the  price  she  was  asked  to 
pay  for  a  bedroom  with  private  bath.  It  was  only  when, 


292  JOAN    THURSDAY 

at  length  relieved  of  the  attentions  of  the  bell-boy  whose 
unconcealed  admiration  alone  was  worth  the  quarter  Joan 
gave  him  as  a  tip,  she  had  inspected  first  her  new  quarters 
and  then  herself  in  a  pier-glass,  that  the  girl  gave  herself 
over  to  alternate  tremors  of  self-approval  and  trepidation. 
These  last  were  only  increased  when  she  reckoned  up  the 
money  she  had  left,  and  appreciated  how  much  she  had 
spent  in  that  one  wild  afternoon  of  shopping. 

On  the  other  hand,  <  she  reminded  herself,  a  complete 
new  wardrobe  was  a  necessity  to  one  whose  former  outfit 
was  lost  beyond  recall.  Quard  would  never  have  for- 
warded the  clothing  she  had  left  behind  in  San  Francisco, 
even  if  she  could  have  found  the  effrontery  to  write  and 
demand  it.  And  if  she  had  expended  upwards  of  five 
hundred  dollars  since  reaching  New  York,  there  was  less 
extravagance  in  that  than  might  have  been  suspected ;  she 
had  purchased  cannily  in  almost  every  instance  and,  at 
worst,  but  few  things  that  she  could  well  have  done  with- 
out in  that  sphere  of  life  to  which  she  felt  herself  called. 

The  excitement  of  unwrapping  thbse  parcels  which 
began  presently  to  arrive  in  shoals,  and  of  reviewing  such 
purchases  as  she  had  not  worn  to  the  hotel  on  her  back, 
in  time  completely  reassured  her.  It  was  with  the  com- 
posure of  restored  self-confidence  and  esteem  that  she 
presently  went  down  to  dinner. 

Conscious  that  she  was  looking  her  handsome  best  in 
a  modish  afternoon  gown,  she  was  able  to  receive  the  at- 
tentions of  the  head-waiter  with  just  the  proper  degree 
of  indifference,  to  order  a  simple  meal  and  consume  it 
appreciatively  without  seeming  aware  that  she  dined  in 
strange  surroundings. 

But  all  the  while  she  was  consumed  with  admiration 
of  herself  for  her  audacity,  as  well  as  with  not  a  little 
awe-stricken  wonder  at  the  child  of  fortune,  who  in  the 
space  of  one  brief  year  —  of  less,  indeed,  than  that  full 
period  —  had  risen  from  the  stocking-counter  of  a  depart- 
ment store  and  the  squalor  and  poverty  of  East  Seventy- 


JOAN    THURSDAY  293 

sixth  Street  to  the  dignity  of  a  leading  woman  and  the 
affluence  of  lodging  at  the  Waldorf ! 

True,  she  now  lacked  an  engagement;  but  she  had  to 
support  her  demands  for  new  employment  the  prestige  of 
a  successful  season  with  "  The  Lie  "  —  "  the  vaudeville 
sensation  of  the  year,"  as  Quard  had  truthfully  de- 
scribed it. 

Need  she  fret  herself  with  vain  questionings  of  an  in- 
scrutable future,  who  had  made  such  amazing  progress 
in  so  short  a  time? 

Surely  she  was  justified  in  assuming  that  the  end  for 
her  was  not  yet,  that  she  was  dedicated  to  some  far  richer 
and  more  gorgeous  destiny  than  any  she  had  ever  con- 
ceived in  her  most  wild  imaginings. 

She  had  only  to  watch  herself:  she  was  her  own  sole 
enemy,  with  her  fondness  for  the  admiration  of  men  and 
their  society.  Let  them  realize  that  weakness,  and  she  was 
lost,  doomed  to  the  way  too  many  capable  girls  had  gone, 
to  the  end  of  infamy  and  despair.  But  if  only  she  had 
the  wit  and  art  to  make  men  think  her  weakness 
theirs  .  .  . 

And  that  much  Joan  was  sure  she  possessed:  she  be- 
lieved she  had  learned  to  know  Man  better  than  herself. 

She  meant  to  go  far,  now,  a  great  deal  farther  than 
she  had  ever  thought  to  go  in  those  quaint,  far-off  days 
when  the  crown  of  her  ambition  had  been  to  paint  her 
pretty  face,  wear  silken  tights  upon  her  pretty  legs,  and 
beat  a  drum  in  the  chorus  of  Ziegfield's  Follies. 


XXIX 

AFTEE  dinner  Joan  treated  herself  to  the  experience  of 
lounging  in  one  of  the  corridors  of  the  hotel,  the  one  (she 
fancied:  she  wasn't  sure)  known  through  the  Town  as 
"  Peacock  Alley." 

She  pretended  to  be  waiting  for  somebody,  made  her 
gaze  seem  more  abstracted  than  demure.  Inwardly  she 
quivered  with  the  excitement,  the  exaltation  of  forming 
a  part  of  that  rich  and  sensuous  scene. 

There  were  women  all  about  her,  many  women  of 
all  ages  and  from  every  grade  of  society,  alike  in  one 
respect  alone,  that  they  were  radiantly  dressed  and,  like 
Joan,  found  pleasure  in  sunning  themselves  in  the  soft, 
diffused  glow  of  the  many  shaded  electric  lamps  as  well 
as  in  the  regard,  as  a  rule  less  shaded,  of  that  endless 
parade  of  men  who  moved,  sometimes  alone,  again  with 
other  men,  more  commonly  with  women,  continually  from 
one  part  to  another  of  the  hotel. 

Muted  strains  from  an  excellent  orchestra,  not  too  near, 
added  the  final  touch  of  enchantment  to  this  ensemble. 

Entranced  though,  indeed,  seeming  little  more  conscious 
of  her  surroundings  than  one  in  a  day-dream,  Joan  was 
acutely  sensitive  to  all  that  passed  in  her  vicinity.  Not 
a  woman  came  within  the  range  of  her  vision  without 
being  critically  inspected,  dissected,  analyzed,  catalogued, 
both  as  to  her  apparel  and  as  to  the  foundations  for  her 
pretensions  to  social  position  or  beauty.  Not  a  man 
strolled  by,  were  he  splendid  in  evening  dress  or  merely 
"  smart "  in  the  ubiquitous  "  sack  suit "  of  the  period, 
without  being  scrutinized  and  appraised  with  a  minute 
attention  to  detail  that  would  have  flattered  him  had  it 
been  less  covert. 


JOAN    THURSDAY  295 

Joan  felt  the  lust  for  this  life  burning  like  a  fire 
through  all  her  being:  there  was  nothing  she  could  im- 
agine more  desirable  than  to  live  always  as  lived,  ap- 
parently, these  hundreds  of  well-groomed,  high-spirited, 
carefree  people.  .  .  . 

She  had  been  steeping  her  soul  in  the  blandishments 
of  this  atmosphere  for  fully  half  an  hour,  and  was  be- 
ginning to  think  it  time  to  return  to  her  room,  when  she 
was  momentarily  startled  out  of  her  assumed  preoccupa- 
tion by  sight  of  one  who  had  n't  been  far  from  her  thoughts 
at  any  time  since  her  break  with  Quard. 

He  came  walking  her  way  from  the  general  direction 
of  the  bar,  with  another  man  —  both  attired  as  richly  as 
masculine  conventions  permit  in  America,  and  not  alto- 
gether unconscious  of  the  fact,  each  in  his  way  guilty  of 
a  mild  degree  of  swagger.  Of  the  two,  the  one  betray- 
ing the  most  ease  and  freedom  from  ostentation  was  one 
known  to  Joan,  chiefly  through  the  medium  of  his  portraits 
published  in  The  Morning  Telegraph  and  other  theat- 
rical organs,  as  "  Arlie "  Arlington,  a  producing  man- 
ager locally  famous  both  for  his  wit  and  the  shrewdness 
and  success  with  which  he  contrived  to  gauge,  year  in, 
year  out,  public  taste  in  musical  comedies.  Broadway 
had  tagged  him  "  the  only  trustworthy  friend  of  the  Tired 
Business  Man."  Infrequently  Arlington  adventured  in 
plays  without  music  or  dancing,  but  as  a  rule  with  far 
less  success. 

His  companion,  the  man  whom,  Joan  felt,  she  had 
been  subconsciously  waiting  for  ever  since  entering  the 
hotel,  was  Vincent  Marbridge. 

She  was  impressed  with  the  appositeness  of  his  appear- 
ance there  to  her  unexpressed  desire,  this  man  who  had 
been  so  plainly  struck  by  her  charms  at  first  sight  and 
who  was  credited  with  silent  partnership  in  many  of 
Arlington's  enterprises.  And  comprehending  for  the  first 
time  fully  how  much  she  had  been  subjectively  counting 
on  meeting  him  again  and  enlisting  his  sympathies  —  his 


296  JOAN    THURSDAY 

sympathies  at  least  —  she  steeled  herself  against  the  shock 
of  recognition,  lest  she  betray  her  fast  mounting  anxiety. 
He  must  not  for  a  moment  be  permitted  to  suspect  she 
considered  him  anything  but  the  most  distant  of  ac- 
quaintances or  believed  him  to  have  been  the  anonymous 
author  of  that  magnificent  gift  of  roses.  .  .  . 

But  Marbridge  passed  without  seeing  her,  at  all  events 
without  knowing  that  he  saw  her.  Rolling  a  little  as  he 
walked,  with  that  individual  sway  of  his  body  from  the 
hips,  he  leaned  slightly  toward  Arlington  and  gesticulated 
with  immense  animation  while  recounting  some  inaudible 
anecdote  which  seemed  to  amuse  both  men  mightily.  And 
in  the  swing  of  his  narrative  his  glance,  wandering,  flick- 
ered across  Joan's  face  and  on  without  in  the  least  com- 
prehending her  as  anything  more  than  a  lay  figure  in  a 
familiar  setting. 

But  Arlington,  less  distracted,  looked  once  keenly,  and 
after  he  had  passed  turned  to  look  again. 

In  spite  of  this  balm  to  her  vanity,  Joan  flushed  with 
chagrin.  She  knew  in  her  heart  that  Marbridge  had  not 
other  than  inadvertently  slighted  her;  yet  she  felt  the 
cut  as  keenly  as  though  it  had  been  grossly  intentional. 

Nevertheless  she  waited  there  for  many  minutes  more, 
in  the  hope  that  he  would  return  and  this  time  know  her. 

At  length,  however,  she  saw  the  two  men  again,  at  some 
distance,  standing  by  the  revolving  doors  at  the  Thirty- 
third  Street  entrance.  Both  now  wore  top-coats  and  hats. 
Marbridge  was  still  talking,  and  Arlington  listening  with 
the  same  expression  of  faintly  constrained  but  on  the  whole 
genuine  amusement.  And  almost  as  soon  as  Joan  discov- 
ered them,  they  were  joined  by  two  women  in  brilliant 
evening  gowns  and  wraps.  An  instant  later  the  party 
was  feeding  itself  into  the  inappeasable  hopper  of  the 
revolving  door,  and  so  disappeared. 

A  prey  to  a  sudden  sensation  of  intense  loneliness  and 
disappointment  —  and  with  this  a  trace  of  jealousy ;  for 
in  spite  of  the  distance  she  had  been  able  to  see  that  both 


JOAN    THURSDAY  297 

women  were  very  lovely  —  Joan  got  up  and  returned  to 
her  room.  .  .  . 

An  hour  later  she  rose  from  a  restless  attempt  to  go 
to  sleep,  went  to  the  telephone  and  asked  the  switchboard 
operator  to  find  out  whether  or  not  Mr.  Vincent  Mar- 
bridge  was  a  guest  of  the  hotel. 

The  answer  was  in  the  affirmative,  if  modified  by  the 
information  that  the  party  was  n't  in  just  then. 

Intensely  gratified,  the  girl  went  back  to  bed  and 
promptly  fell  asleep  formulating  ingenious  schemes  to 
meet  Marbridge  by  ostensible  accident. 

On  the  following  day  she  lunched  at  the  hotel,  spent 
two  fruitless  hours  in  its  public  corridors  between  tea 
time  and  time  to  dress  for  dinner,  and  another  in  Pea- 
cock Alley  after  dinner,  seeing  nothing  whatever  of 
Marbridge. 

And  the  day  after  provided  her  with  a  fatiguing  repe- 
tition of  this  experience. 

She  began  to  be  tremendously  bored  by  this  mode  of  ex- 
istence, to  sense  the  emptiness,  the  vapidity  of  hotel  life 
for  a  friendless  woman. 

Once  or  twice  she  revived  and  let  her  fancy  play 
about  her  project  to  revisit  her  family  in  the  guise  of 
Lady  Bountiful,  but  only  to  defer  its  execution  against 
the  time  when  she  could  go  to  them  with  another  en- 
gagement to  drive  home  the  stupendous  proportions  of 
her  success. 

Besides  (she  told  herself)  they  seemed  to  be  worrying 
along  without  her,  all  right.  If  they  cared  anything  about 
her,  they  could  have  written,  at  least;  Edna  had  the 
West  Forty-sixth  Street  address.  .  .  . 

Not  once  or  twice  but  many  a  time  and  oft  she  found 
herself  yearning  back  to  the  homely  society  of  the 
Sisters  Dean's  salon  in  the  establishment  of  Madame 
Duprat.  And  though  she  held  back  from  revisiting  the 
house  through  fear  of  meeting  Matthias,  she  wasted  many 
an  hour  promenading  Broadway  from  Thirty-eighth 


298  JOAN    THURSDAY 

Street  north  to  Forty-eighth,  in  the  hope  of  encountering 
Maizie  or  May  or  one  of  their  friends. 

But  it  was  singularly  her  fate  to  espy  not  one  familiar 
face  among  the  multitude  her  wistful  eyes  reviewed  dur- 
ing those  dreary  mid-afternoon  patrols. 

Everybody  she  knew,  it  would  seem,  was  either  busy 
or  resting  out  of  town. 

On  her  fourth  morning  at  the  Waldorf,  reading  The 
Morning  Telegraph  over  the  breakfast  tray  in  her  room, 
Joan  ran  across  an  illuminating  news  item  that  carried 
a  Buffalo  date  line.  It  chronicled  the  first  performance 
of  Arlington's  most  recent  venture,  "  Mrs.  Mixer,"  an- 
nounced as  a  satirical  comedy  of  manners  by  an  author 
unknown  either  to  Joan  or  to  fame,  and  projected  by 
Arlington  as  a  vehicle  to  exploit  the  putative  talents  of 
]STella  Cardrow,  "  the  stage's  latest  recruit  from  the  Four 
Hundred."  The  Buffalo  performance  was,  it  appeared, 
the  first  of  a  fortnight's  trial  on  the  road,  following  which 
the  production  was  to  be  withdrawn  pending  a  metropoli- 
tan debut  in  the  Autumn. 

The  story  of  the  first  night  was  infused  with  a  thinly 
sarcastic  humour. 

"  After  the  final  curtain,"  it  pursued,  "  the  audience 
filed  reverently  from  the  house,  omitting  flowers,  and 
Arlie  Arlington  broke  a  track  record  reaching  the  nearest 
Western  Uni6n  office  to  summon  several  well-known  ante- 
mortem  specialists  of  New  York  to  the  bedside  of  the 
patient.  Meanwhile,  Vincent  Marbridge  was  hastily  or- 
ganized into  a  posse  of  one  to  prevent  Undertaker  Cain 
from  laying  hands  upon  the  sufferer  and  carting  it  off  to 
what  might  prove  premature  interment  in  the  mausoleum 
of  his  celebrated  storage  warehouses."  .  .  . 

Dropping  the  paper,  Joan  went  directly  to  the  telephone 
and  asked  the  office  to  have  her  bill  ready  within  an  hour's 
time. 

From  this  she  turned  to  pack  her  new  possessions  in 
a  trunk  as  new. 


JOAN    THURSDAY  299 

It  had  never  occurred  to  her  that  Marbridge  might 
have  left  the  hotel. 

Now  she  said  that  it  was  "  just  her  luck !  "  .  .  . 

By  one  o'clock  that  afternoon  she  had  shifted  bag  and 
baggage  to  a  stuffy  and  poorly  furnished  bedchamber  in 
a  crowded,  noisy,  and  not  overclean  theatrical  hotel  situ- 
ated on  a  corner  of  Longacre  Square. 

This  establishment  consisted  of  an  old  and  rambling 
structure  of  four  storeys,  of  which  the  street  floor  was 
given  over  to  tradesmen.  An  all-night  drug-store  held 
the  corner  shop,  while  other  subdivisions  were  occupied 
by  a  "  tonsorial  parlor,"  a  dairy-lunch  room  in  the  favour 
of  many  taxicab  chauffeurs,  a  boot-blacking  business,  and 
a  theatrical  hair-dresser's.  Next  door,  off  Broadway, 
stood  one  of  those  reticent  brown-stone  residences  with 
perennially  shuttered  windows  and  a  front-door  to  all  ap- 
pearances hermetically  sealed,  but  negotiable,  none  the 
less,  to  those  whom  fortune  had  favoured  with  the  pass- 
word and  sufficient  money  and  witlessness  to  make  them 
welcome  with  proprietors  of  crooked  gambling  layouts. 
Across  the  street  rose  the  side  wall  of  a  theatre,  decorated 
with  an  angular  iron  fire-escape. 

The  day  was  almost  unseasonably  warm,  but  the  hour 
appointed  when  the  city  should  blossom  out  in  awnings 
had  not  arrived.  Joan's  room  was  hot  with  sunlight  that 
mercilessly  enhanced  the  shabbiness  of  all  its  appoint- 
ments, from  the  stained  and  threadbare  carpet  to  the 
cheap  bureau  with  its  mottled,  dark  mirror,  and  the 
scorched  and  blistered  edges  of  its  top  where  cigarettes 
had  been  suffered  to  burn  out,  forgotten. 

But  when  Joan  had  unpacked  and  disposed  of  her  be- 
longings, she  went  to  the  window  as  she  was,  in  a  loose 
kimono  generously  open  at  the  throat,  and  stood  there 
for  a  long  time,  contentedly  looking  out. 

Taxicabs  darted  or  stood  with  motors  sonorously  rum- 
bling in  the  street  below.  Round  the  corner,  Longacre 
Square  roared  with  the  traffic  of  its  several  lines  of  sur- 


300  JOAN    THURSDAY 

face-cars  and  its  unending  procession  of  motor-driven 
vehicles.  The  windows  of  the  theatre  across  the  way  were 
open,  and  through  them  drifted  the  clatter  of  a  piano 
with  the  surge  of  half  a  hundred  feminine  voices  repeat- 
ing over  and  over  the  burden  of  a  chorus  —  betraying  the 
fact  that  a  rehearsal  was  in  progress.  At  one  of  the  open 
fire-escape  exits  lounged  a  youth  in  his  shirt-sleeves,  smok- 
ing a  cigarette,  and  conversing  amiably  with  a  young 
woman  in  a  stiffly-starched  white  shirtwaist,  ankle-length 
skirt,  and  brazen  hair:  principals,  Joan  surmised,  wait- 
ing for  their  turn,  when  the  chorus  had  learned  its  busi- 
ness acceptably. 

Nearer  at  hand,  in  the  room  to  the  right  of  Joan's,  a 
woman  with  a  good  voice  was  humming  absently  an  aria 
from  "  La  Tosca,"  while  to  the  left  another  woman  was 
audible,  her  strained  and  nervous  accents  stuttering 
on  in  an  endless  monologue  of  abuse,  evidently  aimed  at 
the  head  of  a  husband  who,  if  he  had  been  "  drinking 
again,"  retained  at  least  wit  enough  to  attempt  no  sort 
of  interruption  or  rejoinder. 

Joan  smiled  in  comprehension. 

Breathing  long  and  deep  of  tepid  air  flavoured  strongly 
with  dust  and  the  effluvia  of  dead  cigars  and  cigarettes, 
she  turned  away  from  the  window,  lifted  her  arms  and 
spread  them  wide,  luxuriously. 

"  Thank  God !  "  she  murmured  with  profound  sincerity 
—  "  for  a  place  you  can  stretch  in !  " 


XXX 

WITH  scant  delay  Joan  began  to  pick  up  acquaintances : 
nothing  is  easier  in  that  milieu  to  which  the  girl  dedicated 
herself. 

The  process  of  widening  her  circle  began  with  meeting 
the  girl  whom  Joan  had  heard  singing  in  the  adjoin- 
ing bedchamber.  They  passed  twice  in  the  corridors  of 
the  Astoria  Inn  before  Joan  had  been  resident  there 
twenty-four  hours,  and  on  the  second  occasion  the  girl 
with  the  voice  nodded  in  a  friendly  way  and  enquired 
if  Joan  did  n't  think  the  weather  was  simply  awf 'ly  lovely 
today.  Joan  replied  in  the  affirmative,  and  their  ac- 
quaintanceship languished  for  as  long  as  twelve  hours. 
Then,  toward  six  in  the  evening,  the  girl  presented  her- 
self at  Joan's  door  in  a  condition  of  candid  deshabille, 
wishing  to  borrow  a  pair  of  curling-irons.  Being  accom- 
modated, she  came  on  into  the  room,  perched  herself  on 
the  edge  of  the  bed,  and  made  herself  known. 

Her  name  was  Minnie  Hession  and  she  had  been  sing- 
ing in  the  chorus  for  seven  years.  Originally  a  prettyish, 
plump-bodied  brunette,  she  was  at  present  what  she  her- 
self termed  "  black-and-tan  " :  in  the  middle  of  the  process 
of  "  letting  her  hair  go  back."  Her  father  was  Chief 
of  Police  of  some  Western  city  (name  purposely  with- 
held: Joan  was,  however,  assured  that  she  would  be 
surprised  if  she  knew  what  city)  and  her  folks  had  heaps 
of  money  and  had  been  wild  with  her  when  she  insisted 
on  going  on  the  stage. 

"  But,  goodness,  dearie,  when  you  Ve  got  tempryment, 
whatcha  goin'  to  do  ?  Nobody  outsida  the  business  ever 
understands." 


302  JOAN    THURSDAY 

All  the  same,  much  as  the  folks  disapproved  of  her 
carving  out  a  career  for  herself,  whenever  she  got  hard 
up  all  she  had  to  do  was  telegraph  straight  back 
home.  .  .  . 

She  was,  of  course,  at  present  without  employment; 
but  Joan  was  advised  to  wait  until  Arlie  Arlington  got 
back  into  Town;  Arlie  never  forgot  a  girl  who  had  not 
only  a  good  voice  but  some  figure,  if  Miss  Hession  did 
say  it  herself. 

They  went  shopping  together  the  following  afternoon, 
and  in  the  evening  dined  together  at  a  cheap  Italian  res- 
taurant, counterpart  of  that  to  which  Quard  had  first 
introduced  Joan  and  the  Sisters  Dean.  Joan  paid  the 
bill,  by  no  means  a  heavy  one,  and  before  they  went  home 
stood  treat  for  "  the  movies." 

After  that  their  friendship  ripened  at  a  famous  rate, 
if  exclusively  at  Joan's  expense. 

Before  it  had  endured  a  week  Joan  had  loaned  Minnie 
ten  dollars.  Toward  the  end  of  its  first  fortnight  she 
mortally  offended  the  girl  by  refusing  her  an  additional 
twenty,  and  the  next  day  Minnie  moved  from  the  Astoria 
Tun  without  the  formality  of  paying  her  bill  or  even  of 
giving  notice.  The  management  philosophically  confis- 
cated an  empty  suit-case  which  she  had  been  too  timorous 
to  attempt  to  smuggle  out  of  the  house  —  everything  else 
in  her  room  had  mysteriously  vanished  —  and  considered 
the  incident  closed.  In  this  the  management  demonstrated 
its  wisdom  in  its  day  and  generation:  it  never  saw  Miss 
Hession  again. 

Nor  did  Joan. 

But  through  the  chorus  girl,  as  well  as  independently, 
Joan  had  contracted  many  other  fugitive  friendships.  She 
never  lacked  society,  after  that,  whether  masculine  or 
feminine.  Men  liked  her  for  her  good  looks  and  un- 
affected high  spirits ;  women  tolerated  her  for  two  reasons, 
because  she  was  always  willing  to  pay  not  only  her  own 
way  but  another's,  and  because  she  was  what  they  con- 


JOAN    THURSDAY  303 

sidered  a  "  swell  dresser  " :  her  presence  was  an  asset  to 
whatever  party  she  lent  her  countenance. 

Frankly  revelling  in  freedom  regained,  and  intoxicated 
by  possession  of  a  considerable  amount  of  money,  she 
let  herself  go  for  a  time,  quite  heedless  of  expense  or 
consequence.  Within  a  month  she  had  become  a  familiar 
figure  in  such  restaurants  as  Burns',  Churchill's,  and 
Shanley's;  and  her  laughter  was  not  infrequently  heard 
in  Jack's  when  all  other  places  of  its  class  boasted  closed 
doors  and  drawn  blinds. 

Inevitably  she  acquired  a  somewhat  extensive  knowl- 
edge of  drink.  Most  of  all  she  learned  to  love  that  cham- 
pagne which  Matthias  had  been  too  judicious  to  supply 
her  and  from  which  she  had  abstained  out  of  considera- 
tion for  Quard's  weakness.  But  now  there  was  no  reason 
why  she  should  not  enjoy  it  in  such  moderation  as  was 
practised  by  her  chosen  associates.  She  preferred  certain 
sweetish  and  heady  brands  whose  correspondingly  low  cost 
rendered  them  more  easy  to  obtain.  .  .  . 

But  with  all  this  she  never  failed  to  practise  a  certain 
amount  of  circumspection.  In  one  respect,  she  refrained 
from  growing  too  confidential  about  herself.  That  she 
had  been  the  leading  woman  with  "  The  Lie  "  was  some- 
thing to  brag  about:  the  very  cards  which  she  had  been 
quick  to  have  printed  proclaimed  the  fact  loudly  in  imi- 
tation Old  English  engraving.  But  that  she  had  been 
wife  to  its  star  was  something  which  she  was  not  long  in 
discovering  was  n't  generally  known.  The  success  of  the 
sketch  was  a  by-word  of  envy  among  actors  facing  the 
prospect  of  an  idle  summer;  and  the  route  columns  of 
Variety  told  her  that,  in  line  with  her  prediction,  Quard 
had  somehow  surmounted  his  San  Francisco  predicament 
and  was  continuing  to  guide  the  little  play  upon  its  tri- 
umphal course.  But  Quard  himself  had  always  been  too 
closely  identified  with  stock  companies  of  the  second  class 
to  have  many  friends  among  those  with  whom  his  wife 
was  now  thrown :  actors  for  the  most  part  of  the  so-called 


304  JOAN    THURSDAY 

legitimate  stage,  with,  scant  knowledge  or  experience 
(little,  at  least,  that  they  would  own  to)  of  theatrical 
conditions  away  from  Broadway  and  the  leading  theatres 
of  a  few  principal  cities.  So  Joan  kept  her  own  counsel 
about  her  matrimonial  adventure:  its  publication  could 
do  her  no  good,  if  possibly  no  harm;  and  she  preferred 
the  freedom  of  ostensible  spinsterhood.  Her  wedding- 
ring  had  long  since  disappeared  from  her  hand,  giving 
place  to  the  handsome  diamond  with  which  Matthias  had 
pledged  her  his  faith. 

Furthermore,  such  dissipation  as  she  indulged  in  was 
never  permitted  to  carry  her  beyond  the  border-line  which, 
in  her  understanding,  limited  discretion  in  her  relations 
with  men.  She  enjoyed  leading  them  on,  but  marriage 
had  made  her  too  completely  cognizant  of  herself  to  per- 
mit of  any  affair  going  beyond  a  certain  clearly  defined 
point:  she  couldn't  afford  to  throw  herself  away.  And 
more  than  once  she  checked  sharply  and  left  an  undrained 
glass,  warned  by  her  throbbing  pulses  that  she  was  re- 
sponding a  trace  too  ardently  to  the  admiration  in  the 
eyes  of  some  male  companion  of  the  evening. 

But  there  were  only  two  whom  she  held  dangerous  to 
her  peace  of  mind,  one  because  she  was  afraid  of  him, 
the  other  because  she  admired  him  against  her  will. 

The  first  was  an  eccentric  dancer  and  comedian  calling 
himself  Billy  Salute.  A  man  of  middle-age  and  old  be- 
yond his  years  in  viciousness,  the  gymnastic  violence  of 
his  calling  in  great  measure  counteracted  the  effects  of 
his  excesses  and  kept  him  young  in  body.  He  was  a 
constant  and  heavy  but  what  was  known  to  Joan's  circle 
as  a  safe  drinker;  drunkenness  never  obliterated  his 
consciousness  or  disturbed  his  physical  equilibrium;  in 
spite  of  its  web  of  wrinkles,  his  skin  remained  fair  and 
clear  as  a  boy's,  and  retained  much  of  the  fresh  colour- 
ing of  youth.  But  his  eyes  were  cold  and  hard  and  pro- 
foundly informed  with  knowledge  of  womankind.  His 
regard  affected  Joan  as  had  Marbridge's,  that  day  at 


JOAN    THURSDAY  305 

Tanglewood ;  under  its  analysis  she  felt  herself  denuded ; 
pretence  were  futile  to  combat  it :  the  man  knew  her. 

He  made  no  advances;  but  he  watched  her  closely 
whenever  they  were  together;  and  she  knew  that  he  was 
only  waiting,  patient  in  the  conviction  that  he  had  only 
to  wait. 

And  thus  he  affected  her  with  such  fear  and  fascination 
that  she  avoided  him  as  much  as  possible;  but  he  was 
never  far  out  of  her  thoughts ;  he  lingered  always  on  the 
horizon  of  her  consciousness  like  the  seemingly  immobile 
yet  portentous  bank  of  cloud  that  masks  the  fury  of  a 
summer  storm.  .  .  . 

The  other  man  pursued  her  without  ceasing.  He  was 
young,  not  over  twenty-five  or  six  —  an  age  to  which  Joan 
felt  herself  immeasurably  superior  in  the  knowledge  and 
practice  of  life  —  and  happened  to  be  the  one  man  of  her 
acquaintance  who  was  neither  an  actor  nor  connected  with 
the  business  side  of  the  stage.  By  some  accident  he 
had  blundered  from  newspaper  reporting  to  writing  for 
cheaply  sensational  magazines,  and  from  this  to  writing 
for  the  stage.  It  is  true  that  his  achievements  in  this  last 
quarter  had  thus  far  been  confined  to  collaboration  with 
a  successful  playwright  on  the  dramatization  of  one  of 
his  stories ;  but  that  did  n't  lessen  his  self-esteem  and 
assertiveness.  He  claimed  extraordinary  ability  for  him- 
self in  a  quite  matter-of-fact  tone,  and  on  his  own  word 
was  on  terms  of  intimacy  with  every  leading  manager 
and  star  in  the  country.  Nobody  Joan  knew  troubled  to 
contradict  his  pretensions,  and  despite  that  wide  and 
seasoned  view  of  life  she  believed  herself  to  possess  she 
was  still  inexperienced  enough  to  credit  more  than  half 
that  he  told  her,  never  appreciating  that,  had  the  man 
been  what  he  claimed,  he  would  have  had  no  time  to 
waste  toadying  to  actors. 

He  might,  if  not  discouraged,  prove  very  useful  to  her. 

In  fact,  he  promised  to  —  repeatedly. 

More  than  this,  his  attentions  flattered  her  more  than 


306  JOAN    THURSDAY 

she  would  have  cared  to  confess  even  to  herself.  He  did  n't 
lack  wit,  was  n't  without  intelligence,  and  the  power  of  his 
imagination  could  n't  be  denied ;  thus  he  figured  to  her  as 
the  only  man  of  mental  attainments  she  had  known  since 
Matthias.  It  was  something  to  be  desired  by  such  as  this 
one,  even  though  his  abnormally  developed  egotism  some- 
times seemed  appalling. 

It  manifested  itself  in  more  ways  than  one:  in  his 
strut,  in  the  foppishness  of  his  dress,  in  his  elaborate 
affectation  of  an  English  accent.  He  was  a  small  person 
by  the  average  standard,  and  slender,  but  well-formed, 
and  wore  clothing  admirably  tailored  if  always  of  an 
extreme  cut.  His  cheeks  were  too  fleshly,  almost  plump: 
something  which  had  the  effect  of  making  his  rather  deli- 
cate features  seem  pinched.  Near-sighted,  he  wore  cus- 
tomarily a  horn-rimmed  pince-nez  from  which  a  wide 
black  ribbon  dangled  like  a  mourning-band. 

His  name  was  Hubert  Fowey. 

So  Joan  tolerated  him,  encouraged  him  moderately 
through  motives  of  self-interest,  checked  him  with  laughter 
when  he  tried  to  make  love  to  her,  secretly  admired  him 
even  when  his  conceit  was  most  fatiguing,  and  wondered 
what  manner  of  women  he  had  known  to  make  him  think 
that  she  would  ever  yield  to  his  insistence.  .  .  . 

She  had  been  nearly  six  weeks  in  New  York  when  she 
awoke  one  morning  to  rest  in  languorous  regret  of  a  late 
supper  the  preceding  night,  and  to  wonder  whither  she 
was  tending,  spurred  to  self-examination  by  that  singu- 
larly clear  introspective  vision  which  not  infrequently 
follows  intemperance  —  at  least,  when  one  is  young. 

She  was  reminded  sharply  that,  since  returning  to 
Town,  she  had  made  hardly  a  single  attempt  to  find 
work,  beyond  having  her  professional  cards  printed. 

And  this  was  the  edge  of  Summer.  .  .  . 

Where  would  the  Autumn  find  her? 

Slipping  quickly  out  of  bed,  she  collected  her  store  of 
money,  and  counted  it  for  the  first  time  in  several  weeks. 


JOAN    THURSDAY  307 

The  sum  total  showed  a  shocking  discrepancy  between 
cold  fact  and  the  small  fortune  she  had  all  along  been 
permitting  herself  to  believe  she  possessed.  Even  allow- 
ing for  these  heavy  initial  purchases  on  returning  to  New 
York,  her  capital  had  shrunk  alarmingly. 

She  began  anew,  that  day,  the  rounds  of  managers' 
offices. 

Also,  she  laid  down  for  her  guidance  a  rigid  schedule 
of  economies.  Only  by  strict  observance  thereof  would 
she  be  able  to  scrape  through  the  Summer  without  work 
or  financial  assistance  from  some  quarter. 

Characteristically,  she  mourned  now,  but  transiently, 
that  she  had  so  long  deferred  going  to  see  her  mother 
and  Edna  —  something  now  obviously  out  of  the  question ; 
they  would  want  money,  to  a  certainty,  and  Joan  had 
none  to  spare  them. 

A  few  days  later  she  moved  to  share,  half-and-half, 
the  expenses  of  a  three-room  apartment  on  Fiftieth  Street, 
near  Eighth  Avenue,  with  a  minor  actress  whom  she  had 
recently  met  and  taken  a  fancy  to.  Life  was  rather  less 
expensive  under  this  regime;  the  young  women  got  their 
own  breakfasts  and,  as  a  rule,  lunches  that  were  quite 
as  meagre :  repasts  chiefly  composed  of  crackers,  cold  meats 
from  a  convenient  delicatessen  shop,  with  sometimes  a 
bottle  of  beer  shared  between  two.  If  no  one  offered  a 
dinner  in  exchange  for  their  society,  they  would  dine 
frugally  at  the  cheaper  restaurants  of  the  neighbourhood. 
But  their  admirers  they  shared  loyally:  if  one  were 
invited  to  dine,  the  other  accompanied  her  as  a  matter 
of  course. 

An  arrangement  apparently  conducive  to  the  most  com- 
plete intimacy;  neither  party  thereto  doubted  that  she 
was  in  the  full  confidence  of  the  other.  There  were,  none 
the  less,  reservations  on  both  sides. 

Harriet  Morrison,  Joan's  latest  companion,  was  a  girl 
whose  very  considerable  personal  attractions  and  innate 
love  of  pleasure  were  balanced  by  greenish  eyes,  a  firm 


308  JOAN    THURSDAY 

jaw,  and  the  sincere  conviction  that  straight-going  and 
hard  work  would  lead  her  to  success  upon  the  legitimate 
stage.  She  knew  Joan  for  an  incurable  opportunist  with 
few  convictions  of  any  sort  other  than  that  she  could  act 
if  given  a  chance,  and  that  men,  if  properly  managed, 
would  give  her  that  chance.  For  one  so  temperamentally 
her  opposite,  Hattie  could  n't  help  entertaining  some  un- 
spoken contempt.  On  the  other 'hand,  she  believed  Joan 
to  be  decent,  as  yet;  and  halving  the  cost  of  living  per- 
mitted her  to  indulge  in  the  luxury  of  a  week-end  at  the 
seaside  once  or  twice  a  month. 

One  day  near  the  first  of  July  the  two,  happening  to 
meet  on  Broadway  after  a  morning  of  fruitless  search  for 
engagements,  turned  for  luncheon  into  Shanley's  new 
restaurant  —  by  way  of  an  unusual  treat. 

They  had  barely  given  their  order  when  Matthias  came 
in  accompanied  by  a  manager  who  had  offices  in  the 
Bryant  Building,  and  sat  down  at  a  table  not  altogether 
out  of  speaking-distance. 

To  cover  her  discomfiture,  which  betrayed  itself  in 
flushed  cheeks,  Joan  complained  of  the  heat :  an  explana- 
tion accepted  by  Hattie  without  question,  since  Matthias 
had  not  yet  looked  their  way. 

Joan  prayed  that  he  might  not;  but  the  thing  was 
inevitable,  and  it  was  no  less  inevitable  that  he  should 
look  at  the  precise  instant  when  Joan,  unable  longer  to 
curb  her  curiosity,  raised  her  eyes  to  his. 

For  a  moment  she  fancied  that  he  did  n't  recognize 
her.  But  then  his  face  brightened,  and  he  nodded  and 
smiled,  coolly,  perhaps,  but  civilly,  without  the  least  evi- 
dence of  confusion.  They  might  have  been  the  most 
casual  acquaintances. 

And,  indeed,  the  incident  would  probably  have  passed 
unremarked  but  for  the  promptings  of  Joan's  conscience. 
She  was  sure  the  glance  of  Matthias  had  shifted  from  her 
face  to  the  hand  on  which  his  diamond  shone,  and  had 
rested  there  for  a  significant  moment. 


JOAN    THURSDAY  309 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  nothing  of  the  sort  had  happened. 
Matthias  was  absorbed  in  negotiations  concerning  an  old 
play  which  had  caught  the  fancy  of  the  manager.  Joan, 
though  he  knew  her  at  sight,  was  now  too  inconsiderable 
a  figure  in  his  world  for  him  to  recall,  offhand,  that  he 
had  ever  made  her  a  present. 

Nevertheless  the  girl  coloured  furiously,  and  blushed 
again  under  the  inquisitive  stare  of  her  companion. 

"Who's  that?" 

"  Who  ?  "  Joan  muttered  sullenly. 

"  The  fellow  who  bowed  to  you  just  now." 

"  Oh,  that  ?  "  Joan  made  an  unconvincing  effort  at 
speaking  casually :  "  A  man  named  Matthias  —  a  play- 
wright, I  believe." 

"  Oh,"  said  the  other  girl  quietly.  "  Never  done  any- 
thing much,  has  he  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know." 

"  You  don't  know  him  very  well  ?  " 

There  was  a  touch  of  irony  in  the  question  that  struck 
sparks  from  Joan's  temper. 

"  That 's  my  business !  " 

"  I  'm  sure  I  beg  your  pardon,"  Hattie  drawled 
exasperatingly. 

And  the  incident  was  considered  closed,  though  it  did  n't 
pass  without  leaving  its  indelible  effect  upon  their  as- 
sociation. 

With  Joan  it  had  another  result:  it  made  her  think. 
Retrospectively  examining  the  contretemps,  after  she  had 
gone  to  bed  that  night,  she  arrived  at  the  comforting  con- 
clusion that  she  had  been  a  little  fool  to  think  that  Mat- 
thias "  held  that  old  ring  against  her."  He  had  n't  been 
her  lover  for  several  weeks  without  furnishing  the  girl 
with  a  fairly  clear  revelation  of  his  character.  He  was 
simple-hearted  and  sincere;  she  could  not  remember  his 
uttering  one  ungenerous  word  or  being  guilty  of  one  un- 
generous action,  and  she  did  n't  believe  he  could  make 
room  in  his  mind  for  an  ungenerous  thought. 


310  JOAN    THURSDAY 

Now  if  she  were  to  return  it,  he  would  think  that  fine 
of  her.  .  .  . 

Of  course,  she  must  take  it  back  in  person.  If  she 
returned  it  by  registered  mail,  he  would  have  reason  to 
believe  her  afraid  to  meet  him  —  that  she  had  been 
frightened  by  his  mere  glance  into  sending  it  back. 

Not  that  she  hadn't  every  right  in  the  world  to  keep 
it,  if  she  liked:  there  was  no  law  compelling  a  girl 
to  return  her  engagement  ring  when  she  broke  with  a 
man. 

But  Matthias  would  admire  her  for  it. 

Moreover,  it  was  just  possible  that  he  hadn't  as  yet 
arrived  at  the  stage  of  complete  indifference  toward  her. 
And  he  had  "  the  ear  of  the  managers." 

Nerving  herself  to  the  ordeal,  two  days  later,  she  dressed 
with  elaborate  care  in  the  suit  she  had  worn  on  her  flight 
from  Quard.  Newly  sponged  and  pressed,  it  was  quite 
presentable,  if  a  little  heavy  for  the  season ;  moreover,  it 
lacked  the  lustre  and  style  of  her  later  acquisitions.  It 
would  n't  do  to  seem  too  prosperous  .  .  . 

It  was  a  Saturday  afternoon,  and  Hattie  had  taken  her- 
self off  to  a  nearby  ocean  beach  for  the  week-end;  some- 
thing for  which  Joan  was  grateful,  inasmuch  as  it  enabled 
her  to  dress  her  part  without  exciting  comment. 

To  her  relief,  a  servant  new  to  the  house  since  her 
time,  answered  her  ring  at  the  bell  of  Number  289,  and 
with  an  indifferent  nod  indicated  the  door  to  the  back- 
parlour. 

Behind  that  portal  Matthias  was  working  furiously 
against  time,  carpentering  against  the  grain  that  play  to 
discuss  which  he  had  lunched  at  Shanley's ;  the  managerial 
personage  having  offered  to  consider  it  seriously  if  certain 
changes  were  made.  And  the  playwright  was  in  haste 
to  be  quit  of  the  job,  not  only  because  he  disapproved 
heartily  of  the  stipulated  alterations,  but  further  because 
he  was  booked  for  some  weeks  in  Maine  as  soon  as  the 
revision  was  finished. 


JOAN    THURSDAY  811 

Humanly,  then,  he  was  little  pleased  to  be  warned, 
through  the  medium  of  a  knock,  that  his  work  was  to 
suffer  interruption. 

He  swore  mildly  beneath  his  breath,  glanced  suspi- 
ciously at  the  non-committal  door,  growled  brusque  per- 
mission to  enter,  and  bent  again  over  the  manuscript, 
refusing  to  look  up  until  he  had  pursued  a  thread  of 
thought  to  its  conclusion,  and  knotted  that  same  all  ship- 
shape. 

And  when  at  length  he  consented  to  be  aware  of  the 
young  woman  on  his  threshold,  waiting  in  a  pose  of  pa- 
tience, her  eyes  wide  with  doubt  and  apprehensions,  his 
mind  was  so  completely  detached  from  any  thought  of 
Joan  that  he  failed,  at  first,  to  recognize  her. 

But  the  alien  presence  brought  him  to  his  feet  quickly 
enough. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said  with  an  uncertain  nod. 
"  You  wished  to  see  me  about  something  ? " 

Closing  the  door,  Joan  came  slowly  forward  into 
stronger  light. 

"  You  don't  remember  me  ?  "  she  asked,  half  perplexed, 
half  wistful  of  aspect.  "  But  I  thought  —  the  other  day 
—  at  Shanley's  —  " 

"  But  of  course  I  remember  you,"  Matthias  interrupted 
with  a  constrained  smile.  "  But  I  was  n't  —  ah  —  ex- 
pecting you  —  not  exactly  —  you  understand." 

"  Oh,  yes,"  Joan  replied  in  subdued  and  dubious  ac- 
cents —  "I  understand." 

She  waited  a  moment,  watching  narrowly  under  cover 
of  assumed  embarrassment,  the  signs  of  genuine  astonish- 
ment which  Matthias  felt  too  keenly  to  think  of  conceal- 
ing. Then  she  added  an  uneasy: 

"  Of  course  .  .  ." 

"  Of  course !  "  Matthias  echoed  witlessly.  "  You 
wanted  to  see  me  about  something,"  he  iterated,  wander- 
ing. With  an  effort  he  pulled  himself  together.  "  Won't 
you  sit  down  —  ah  —  Joan  ?  " 


312  JOAN    THURSDAY 

"  Thank  you,"  said  the  girl.  "  But  I  'm  afraid  I  'm 
in  the  way,"  she  amended,  dropping  back  into  the  old, 
worn,  easy-chair. 

"  Oh,  no  —  I  —  " 

The  insincerity  of  his  disclaimer  was  manifest  in  an 
apologetic  glance  toward  the  manuscript  and  a  hasty  thrust 
of  fingers  up  through  his  hair.  Joan  caught  him  up 
quickly. 

"  Oh,  but  I  know  I  am,  so  I  shan't  stay,"  she  said, 
settling  herself  comfortably.  "  I  only  ask  a  minute  or 
two  of  your  time.  You  don't  mind  ?  " 

"  Mind  ?    Why,  I  —  certainly  not." 

She  looked  down  as  if  disconcerted  by  his  honest,  per- 
plexed, questioning  eyes. 

"  I  was  afraid  you  might,  after  —  after  what 's  hap- 
pened —  " 

He  fumbled  for  a  cigarette,  beginning  to  feel  more 
calm,  less  nervous  than  annoyed.  The  fact  of  her 
unruffled  self-possession  had  at  length  penetrated  his 
understanding. 

"  E"o,"  he  said  slowly,  rolling  the  cigarette  between  his 
palms,  "  I  don't  mind  in  the  least,  if  I  can  be  of  service 
to  you." 

"  But  I  was  very  foolish,"  Joan  persisted,  "  and  —  and 
unkind.  I  've  been  sorry  ever  since  .  .  ." 

"  Don't  be,"  Matthias  begged,  his  tone  so  odd  that  she 
looked  up  swiftly  and  coloured. 

Thus  far  everything  had  gone  famously,  quite  as  re- 
hearsed in  the  theatre  of  her  optimistic  fancy;  but  the 
new  accent  in  his  voice  made  her  suddenly  fear  lest,  after 
all,  the  little  scene  might  not  play  itself  out  as  smoothly 
as  it  had  promised  to. 

"  Don't  be,"  Matthias  repeated  coolly.  "  It 's  quite  all 
right.  Take  my  word  for  it :  as  far  as  I  'm  concerned 
you  've  nothing  at  all  to  reproach  yourself  with." 

Her  flush  deepened.  "  You  mean  you  did  n't 
care  — !  " 


JOAN    THURSDAY  313 

Matthias  smiled,  but  not  unkindly.  "  I  mean,"  he 
said  slowly  —  "  neither  of  us  really  cared." 

"  Speak  for  yourself  —  "  Joan  cut  in  with  a  flash  of 
temper ;  but  he  obtained  her  silence  with  a  gentle  gesture. 

"  Please  ...  I  mean,  we  both  lost  our  heads  for  a 
time.  That  was  all  there  was  to  it,  I  think.  Naturally 
it  could  n't  last.  You  were  wise  enough  to  see  that  first 
and  —  ah  —  did  the  only  thing  you  decently  could,  when 
you  threw  me  over.  I  understood  that,  at  once." 

"  But  I,"  she  began  in  a  desperate  effort  to  regain 
lost  ground  —  "I  was  afraid  you  'd  hate  and  despise 
me  —  " 

"Not  a  bit,  Joan  —  believe  me,  not  for  an  instant. 
When  I  had  had  time  to  think  it  all  out,  I  was  simply 
grateful.  I  could  never  have  learned  to  hate  or  despise 
you  —  as  you  put  it  —  whatever  happened ;  but  if  you 
had  n't  been  so  sensible  and  far-sighted,  the  affair  might 
have  run  on  too  far  to  be  remedied.  In  which  case  we  'd 
both  have  been  horribly  unhappy." 

This  was  so  far  from  the  attitude  she  had  believed  he 
would  adopt,  that  Joan  understood  her  cause  to  be  worse 
than  forlorn:  it  was  lost;  lost,  that  is,  unless  it  could 
be  saved  by  her  premeditated  heroic  measure. 

Fumbling  in  her  bag,  she  found  his  ring. 

"  Perhaps  you  're  right,"  she  said  with  a  little  sigh. 
"  Anyhow,  it 's  like  you  to  put  it  that  way.  .  .  .  But 
what  I  really  came  for,  was  to  return  this." 

She  offered  the  ring.  He  looked,  startled,  from  it  to  her 
face,  hesitated,  and  took  it.  "  O  —  thanks !  "  he  said,  add- 
ing quite  truthfully :  "  I  M  forgotten  about  that  " ;  and 
tossed  it  carelessly  to  his  work-table  where,  rolling  across 
the  face  of  a  manuscript,  it  oscillated  momentarily  and 
settling  to  rest,  seemed  to  wink  cynically  at  its  late 
possessor. 

Joan  blinked  hastily  in  response :  there  was  a  transient 
little  mist  before  her  eyes;  and  momentarily  her  lips 
trembled  with  true  emotion.  The  scene  was  working  out 


314  JOAN    THURSDAY 

more  painfully  than  she  had  ever  in  her  direst  misgivings 
dreamed  it  might. 

Deep  in  her  heart  she  had  all  along  nursed  the  hope 
that  he  would  insist  on  her  retaining  the  ring.  That 
would  have  been  like  the  Matthias  of  her  memories ! 

But  now  he  seemed  to  think  that  she  ought  to  be  glad 
thus  to  disburden  her  conscience  and  by  just  so  much 
to  modify  her  indebtedness  to  him! 

Struck  by  this  thought,  Joan  gasped  inwardly,  and 
examined  with  startled  eyes  the  face  of  Matthias.  It 
was  her  first  reminder  of  the  fact  that  he  had  left  her 
one  hundred  and  fifty  unearned  dollars.  She  had  for- 
gotten all  about  that  till  this  instant.  Otherwise,  she 
would  have  hesitated  longer  about  calling.  She  wondered 
if  he  were  thinking  of  the  same  thing;  but  his  face  af- 
forded no  index  to  his  thoughts.  He  was  n't  looking  at 
her  at  all,  in  fact,  but  down,  in  abstraction,  studying  the 
faded  pattern  of  the  carpet  at  his  feet. 

She  wondered  if  perhaps  it  would  advance  her  interests 
to  offer  to  return  the  money,  to  pay  it  back  bit  by  bit  — 
when  she  found  work.  But  wisely  she  refrained  from  act- 
ing on  this  suggestion. 

"  I  'm  sorry  I  was  so  long  about  bringing  it  back,"  she 
resumed  with  an  artificial  manner.  "  I  was  always  mean- 
ing to,  you  know,  and  always  kept  putting  it  off.  You 
know  how  it  is  when  you  're  on  the  road :  one  never  seems 
to  have  any  time  to  one's  self." 

"  I  quite  understand,"  Matthias  assured  her  gravely. 

She  grew  sensitive  to  the  fact  that  he  was  being  patient 
with  her. 

"  But  I  really  must  n't  keep  you  from  your  work,"  she 
said,  rising.  "  You  —  you  knew  I  was  working,  did  n't 
you?" 

"  I  heard,"  Matthias  evaded  —  "in  a  roundabout  way 
—  that  you  were  playing  in  vaudeville." 

The  girl  nodded  vigorously.  "  Oh,  yes ;  I  was  all 
over,  playing  the  lead  in  a  sketch  called  '  The  Lie.'  It 


JOAN    THURSDAY  315 

was  a  regular  knock-out.  You  ought  to  have  seen  how 
it  got  over.  It 's  still  playing,  somewhere  out  West,  I 
guess." 

"  You  left  it,  then  ? "  Matthias  asked,  bored,  heartily 
wishing  her  out  of  the  house. 

She  was  aching  to  know  if  he  had  learned  of  her  mar- 
riage. But  then  she  felt  sure  he  could  n't  possibly  have 
heard  about  it.  Still,  she  wondered,  if  he  did  know,  would 
it  modify  his  attitude  toward  her  in  any  way  ? 

"  Yes,"  she  resumed  briskly,  to  cover  her  momentary 
hesitation,  "  I  left  it  the  week  we  played  'Frisco.  I  had 
to.  The  star  and  I  could  n't  seem  to  hit  it  off,  somehow. 
You  know  how  that  is." 

"  And  yet  you  must  have  managed  to  agree  with  him 
pretty  well,  from  all  I  hear." 

"  What  did  you  hear  ?  " 

(Did  he  really  know,  then?) 

"  Why,"  Matthias  explained  ingeniously,  "  you  must 
have  been  with  the  sketch  for  several  months,  by  your 
own  account.  You  could  n't  have  been  bickering  all  that 
time." 

Confidence  returned.  ..."  Oh,  that !  Yes,  of  course. 
But  I  could  see  it  coming  a  long  ways  ahead.  So  I  quit, 
and  came  back  to  look  for  another  engagement.  You  —  " 

She  broke  off,  stammering. 

"  Beg  pardon  ?  "  Matthias  queried  curiously. 

Joan  flushed  again.  "  You  don't  know  of  anything  I 
could  do,  just  now,  I  suppose  ?  " 

He  shook  his  head.     "  Not  at  present,  I  'm  afraid." 

"  If  you  should  hear  of  anything,  it  would  be  awful' 
good  of  you  to  let  me  know." 

"  Depend  upon  me,  I  shall." 

"  Care  of  The  Dramatic  Mirror  will  always  get  me." 

"  I  shan't  forget." 

"  Well  .  .  ."  She  offered  him  her  hand  with  a  splen- 
didly timid  smile.  "  I  suppose  it 's  good-bye  for  good 
this  time." 


316  JOAN    THURSDAY 

Matthias  accepted  her  hand,  shook  it  without  a  tremor, 
and  released  it  easily. 

"  I  've  a  notion  it  is,  Joan,"  he  admitted. 

She  turned  toward  the  door,  advanced  a  pace  or  two, 
and  paused. 

"  They  say  Arlington  's  going  to  make  a  lot  of  new 
productions  next  Fall  .  .  ." 

"Yes?" 

"  Well,  I  was  wondering  if  you  would  n't  mind  putting 
in  a  good  word  for  me." 

"  I  would  be  glad  to,  but  unfortunately  I  don't  know 
Mr.  Arlington." 

"  But  you  know  Mr.  Marbridge,  and  everybody  says 
he  's  Arlington's  silent  partner." 

Matthias  looked  as  uncomfortable  as  he  felt. 

"  I  am  not  sure  that  is  true,"  he  said  slowly,  "  and 
—  well,  to  tell  the  truth,  Marbridge  and  I  are  n't  on  the 
best  of  terms.  I  'm  afraid  I  could  n't  influence  him  in 
any  way  —  except,  perhaps,  to  prejudice  him." 

"Oh!"  Joan  said  blankly.  .  .  . 

It  came  to  her,  in  a  flash,  that  the  two  men  might  have 
quarrelled  about  her,  thanks  to  the  obvious  fascination 
she  had  exerted  over  Marbridge,  that  age-old  day  at 
Tanglewood. 

"  I  suppose,"  she  ventured  pensively,  "  I  might  go  to 
see  him  —  Mr.  Marbridge  —  myself  —  ?  " 

"  I  'm  afraid  I  can't  advise  you." 

This  time  the  accent  of  finality  was  unmistakable. 
Joan  bridled  with  resentment.  After  all,  he  'd  no  real 
call  to  be  so  uppish,  simply  because  she  hadn't  let  him 
stand  between  her  and  her  career.  .  .  . 

"  You  don't  really  think  I  ought  to  go  and  see  him, 
do  you  ?  " 

"  I  wish  you  would  n't  ask  me,  Joan." 

"  But  I  Ve  got  no  one  to  advise  me.  ...  If  you  don't 
think  it  wise,  I  wish  you  'd  say  so.  I  thought  perhaps 
it  was  a  chance  . 


JOAN    THURSDAY  317 

Matthias  shrugged,  excessively  irritated  by  her  per- 
sistence. "  I  can  only  say  that  I  would  n't  advise  any 
woman  to  look  to  Marbridge  for  anything  honourable," 
he  said  reluctantly. 

"  Oh !  "  the  girl  said  in  a  startled  tone. 

"  But  —  I  'm  sorry  you  made  me  say  that.  It  'a  none 
of  my  affair.  Please  forget  I  said  it." 

"  But  you  make  it  so  hard  for  me." 

"  I ?  "  he  cried  indignantly  —  "I  make  it  hard  for 
you !  " 

"  Well,  I  come  to  you  for  advice  —  friendly  advice  — 
and  you  close  in  my  very  face  the  only  door  I  can  see 
to  any  sort  of  work.  It 's  —  it 's  pretty  hard.  I  can  act, 
I  know  I  can  act !  I  guess  I  proved  that  when  I  was  with 
Charlie  —  Mr.  Quard  —  the  star  of  '  The  Lie,'  you  know. 
I  couldn't  've  stuck  as  long  as  I  did  if  I  hadn't  had 
talent.  .  .  .  But  back  here  in  New  York,  all  that  does  n't 
seem  to  count.  Here  I  've  been  going  around  for  two 
months,  and  all  they  offer  me  is  a  chorus  job  with  some 
road  company.  But  Arlington  ...  he  employs  more 
girls  than  anybody  in  the  business.  I  know  he  'd  give  me 
a  chance  to  show  what  I  can  do,  if  I  could  only  get  to 
him.  And  then  you  tell  me  not  to  try  to  get  to  him  the 
only  way  I  know." 

Abruptly  Joan  ceased,  breathing  heavily  after  that  long 
and,  even  to  her,  unexpected  speech.  But  it  had  been 
well  delivered:  she  could  feel  that.  She  clenched  her 
hands  at  her  sides  in  a  gesture  plagiarized  from  a  sou- 
brette  star  in  one  of  her  infrequent  scenes  of  stage  ex- 
citement; and  stood  regarding  Matthias  with  wide, 
accusing  eyes. 

His  own  were  blank.  .  .  . 

He  was  trying  to  account  to  himself  for  the  fact  that 
this  girl  seemed  to  have  the  knack  of  making  him  feel 
a  heartless  scoundrel,  even  when  his  stand  was  morally 
impregnable,  even  though  it  were  unassailable. 

Here  was  this  girl,  evidently  convinced  that  he  had  not 


318  JOAN    THURSDAY 

dealt  squarely  with  her,  believing  that  he  deliberately 
withheld  —  out  of  pique,  perhaps  —  aid  in  his  power  to 
offer  her.  .  .  . 

He  passed  a  hand  wearily  across  his  eyes,  and  turned 
back  toward  his  work-chair. 

"  You  'd  better  sit  down,"  he  said  quietly,  "  while  I 
think  this  out." 

Without  a  word  the  girl  returned  to  the  arm-chair 
and  perched  herself  gingerly  upon  the  edge  of  it,  ready 
to  rise  and  flee  (she  seemed)  whenever  it  should  pardon- 
ably suggest  itself  to  Matthias  that  the  only  right  and 
reasonable  thing  for  him  to  do  was  to  rise  up  and  mur- 
der her.  .  .  . 

On  his  part,  sitting,  he  rested  elbows  upon  the  litter 
of  manuscript,  and  held  his  head  in  his  hands. 

He  was  sorry  now  that  he  had  yielded  to  the  tempta- 
tion to  be  plain-spoken  about  Arlington  and  Marbridge. 
But  she  had  driven  him  to  it;  and  she  was  an  empty- 
headed  little  thing  and  ought  really  to  be  kept  out  of 
that  galley.  On  the  other  hand,  he  was  afraid  that  if  he 
allowed  himself  to  be  persuaded  to  help  her  find  a  new 
engagement,  she  would  misunderstand  his  motives  one  way 
or  another  —  most  probably  the  one.  He  could  n't  afford 
to  have  her  run  away  with  the  notion  that  his  affection 
for  her  had  been  merely  hibernating.  He  had  not  only 
himself,  he  had  Venetia  to  think  of,  now.  To  her  he  had 
dedicated  his  life,  to  a  dumb,  quixotic  passion.  Some 
day  she  might  need  him;  some  day,  it  seemed  certain, 
she  would  need  him.  She  was  presently  to  have  a  child ; 
and  Marbridge  was  going  on  from  bad  to  worse;  things 
could  not  forever  endure  as  they  were  between  those  two. 
And  then  she  would  be  friendless,  a  woman  with  a  child 
fighting  for  the  right  to  live  in  solitary  decency  .  .  . 

But  Joan!  ...  If  she  were  headed  that  way,  toward 
the  Arlington  wheel  within  the  wheel  of  the  stage,  even 
at  risk  of  blame  and  misunderstanding  Matthias  felt  that 
he  ought  to  do  what  could  be  done  to  set  her  back  upon 


JOAN    THURSDAY  319 

the  right  road.  It  was  too  bad,  really.  And  it  was  none 
of  his  business.  The  girl  had  given  herself  to  the  theatre 
of  her  own  volition,  after  all.  Or  had  she  ?  Had  the 
right  of  choice  been  accorded  her  ?  Or  was  it  simply  that 
she  had  been  designed  by  Nature  especially  for  that  busi- 
ness, to  which  women  of  her  calibre  seemed  so  essential  ? 
Was  she,  after  all,  simply  life-stuff  manufactured  hastily 
and  carelessly  in  an  old,  worn  mould,  because  destined 
solely  to  be  fed  wholesale  into  the  insatiable  maw  of  the 
stage  ? 

He  shook  his  head  in  weary  doubt,  and  sighed. 

"  Probably,"  he  said,  fumbling  with  a  pen  and  avoiding 
her  eyes  —  "I  presume  —  you  'd  better  come  back  in  a 
day  or  two  —  say  Tuesday.  That  will  give  me  time  to 
look  round  and  see  what  I  can  scare  up  for  you.  Or 
perhaps  Wednesday  would  be  even  better.  .  .  ." 

He  dropped  the  pen  and  rose,  his  manner  inviting  ner 
to  leave. 

"  Wednesday  ?  "  she  repeated,  reluctantly  getting  up 
again. 

"  At  four,  if  that 's  convenient." 

"Yes,  indeed,  it  is.  And  .  .  .  thank  you  so  much 
.  .  .  Jack." 

"  No,  no,"  Matthias  expostulated  wearily. 

"  !No,  I  mean  it,"  she  insisted.  "  You  're  awf 'ly  sweet 
not  to  be  —  unkind  to  me." 

"  Believe  me,  I  could  never  be  that." 

"  Then  —  g'daf ternoon." 

"  Good  afternoon,  Joan." 

But  as  he  moved  to  open  the  door,  his  eyes  were  caught 
by  the  flash  from  a  facet  of  the  diamond ;  and  the  thought 
came  to  him  that  its  presence  there  assorted  ill  with  his 
latest  assurance  to  the  girl.  Catching  it  up,  he  offered  it 
to  Joan  as  she  was  about  to  go. 

"  And  this,"  he  said,  smiling  — "  don't  forget  it, 
please." 

Automatically  her  hand  moved  out  to  take  it,  but  was 


320  JOAN    THURSDAY 

stayed.  Her  eyes  widened  with  true  consternation,  and 
she  gasped  faintly. 

"  You  —  you  don't  mean  it  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  do.  Please  take  it.  I  've  really  no  use  for 
it,  Joan,  and  —  well,  you  and  I  know  what  professional 
life  means."  He  grinned  awry.  "  It  might  be  of  service 
to  you  some  day." 

With  a  cry  of  gratitude  that  was  half  a  sob,  but  with 
no  other  acknowledgment,  the  girl  accepted  the  gift,  stum- 
bled through  the  door  in  a  daze,  and  so  from  the  house. 


XXXI 

So  it  seemed  that  all  men  were  much  alike.  Joan  knew 
but  two  types,  the  man  who  lived  by  his  brains  and  the 
man  who  lived  by  his  wits,  but  had  no  more  hesitation 
in  generalizing  from  these  upon  masculine  society  as  a 
whole  than  a  scientist  has  in  constructing  a  thesis  upon 
the  habits  of  prehistoric  mammalia  from  the  skull  of  a 
pterodactyl  and  the  thigh-bone  of  an  ichthyosaurus.  .  .  . 

They  were  all  much  alike:  if  you  knew  how  to  get 
round  one  kind,  you  knew  how  to  win  over  the  other; 
there  was  a  merely  negligible  difference  in  the  mode  of 
attack.  You  appealed  to  their  sympathies,  or  to  their 
sentiments,  or  their  appetites,  and  if  these  failed  you 
appealed  to  their  pride  in  their  self-assumed  role  of  the 
protectors. 

It  was  no  great  trick,  once  you  had  made  yourself 
mistress  of  it. 

By  this  route  Joan  achieved  the  feat  of  looking  down 
on  Matthias;  and  that  was  not  wholesome  for  the  girl, 
leaving  her  world  destitute  of  a  single  human  soul  that 
commanded  her  respect. 

She  had  needed  only  to  stir  up  his  jealousy  of  Mar- 
bridge  and  his  innate  chivalry  .  .  . 

As  if  she  did  n't  know  what  Arlington's  companies  were 
like !  The  facts  were  notorious ;  nobody  troubled  to  blink 
them ;  Arlington's  employees  least  of  all.  It  was  n't  their 
business  to  blink  the  facts;  a  girl  without  following  had 
as  little  chance  of  securing  a  place  in  one  of  his  choruses 
as  a  girl  without  a  pretty  figure. 

But,  of  course,  a  handsome  girl  with  a  good  figure  .  .  . 

Joan  glanced  in  a  shop  window,  en  passant;    but  she 


322  JOAN    THURSDAY 

saw  nothing  of  the  display  of  wares.  The  plate  glass 
made  a  darkling  mirror  for  the  passers-by:  Joan  could 
see  that  her  refurbished  travelling  suit  fitted  her  be- 
comingly, even  though  it  was  a  trifle  passe. 

She  hurried  home  and  changed  it,  and  hurried  forth 
again  to  keep  an  appointment  with  Hubert  Fowey. 

They  dined  at  a  pretentious  hotel,  in  an  "  Orange 
Garden "  whose  false  moonlight  and  tinkling,  artificial 
fountain  manufactured  an  alluring  simulacrum  of  roman- 
tic night,  despite  the  incessant  activities  of  a  ragtime  - 
bitten  orchestra  and  the  inability  of  the  ventilating  system 
to  infuse  a  hint  of  coolness  into  the  heavy,  superheated 
air. 

Joan  had  little  appetite  —  the  day  had  been  too  over- 
poweringly  hot  —  but  she  was  very  thirsty;  and  Fowey 
provided  a  brand  of  champagne  less  sweet  and  heady 
than  she  would  have  chosen,  and  consequently  more 
insinuative. 

During  the  meal  Billy  Salute  appeared  at  a  table 
across  the  room  and  invisible  to  Fowey,  whose  back  was 
toward  it,  but  still  not  far  enough  removed  to  prevent 
Joan  from  recognizing  that  look  in  the  dancer's  eyes 
which  she  resented  so  angrily.  She  did  n't  once  look  at 
the  man;  but  she  never  quite  lost  sight  of  him,  and  was 
well  aware  that  he  was  ridiculing  Fowey  to  his  com- 
panion —  an  actor,  by  many  an  indication,  but  a  stranger 
to  Joan. 

Provoked,  she  demonstrated  her  contempt  of  Salute  by 
flirting  outrageously  with  Fowey.  Unconscious  of  her 
motive,  that  aspiring  little  dramatic  author  lost  his  head 
to  some  extent.  Now  and  again  his  voice  trembled  when 
he  spoke  to  her,  and  once  he  mumbled  something  about 
marriage,  but  checked  at  discretion,  and  let  his  words  trail 
off  inarticulately. 

Joan  was  not  to  be  denied. 

"  What  did  you  say  ? "  she  demanded,  with  her  most 
distracting  smile. 


JOAN    THURSDAY  323 

"  Oh,  nothing  of  any  importance,"  muttered  Fowey,  his 
face  reddening. 

"  But  you  did  say  something.  I  only  caught  part  of 
it.  Hubert,  I  want  to  know!  " 

It  was  the  first  time  she  had  used  his  given  name. 

"I  —  I  only  wondered  if  you  were  married,"  he  stam- 
mered. "  You  talk  so  cursed  little  about  yourself !  " 

"  Does  it  matter  ?  "  she  parried,  surrender  in  her  eyes. 

He  choked  and  gulped  on  his  champagne. 

"  But  you  're  not,  are  you  ?  "  he  persisted. 

"What's  that  to  you?" 

He  hesitated  and  changed  the  subject,  fearful  lest  his 
tongue  compromise  him. 

"  What  shall  we  do  now  ?  Don't  say  a  roof  garden. 
Let 's  get  out  of  this  infernal  smother.  I  vote  for  a 
taxi  ride  to  Manhattan  Beach." 

Joan  assented. 

Leaving,  they  passed  Salute's  table.  Joan  gave  the 
dancer  a  distant  and  chilling  greeting,  and  swept  haugh- 
tily past,  ignoring  his  offer  to  rise.  The  insolent  irony  of 
his  eyes  was  incredibly  offensive  to  her.  They  said :  "  I 
am  waiting,  I  am  patient,  I  make  no  effort,  I  am  in- 
evitable." 

She  swore  in  her  soul  that  she  would  prove  them 
wrong. 

In  the  taxicab  Fowey  made  some  slighting  reference  to 
the  dancer. 

"  He 's  the  devil ! "  Joan  declared  with  profound 
conviction. 

But  she  wouldn't  explain  her  reasons  for  so  naming 
him. 

When  occasion  offered,  in  the  more  shadowed  stretches 
of  their  course  to  the  sea,  Fowey  attempted  to  kiss  her. 
But  she  would  have  none  of  him  then,  fending  him  off 
by  main  strength  and  raillery ;  and  she  was  pleased  with 
the  discovery  that  she  was  stronger  than  he.  Yet  another 
evidence  of  the  inferiority  of  man! 


324  JOAN    THURSDAY 

At  the  beach,  Fowey  ordered  a  claret  cup.  Joan  de- 
manded an  ice  and  drank  sparingly;  but  when  again  in 
the  motor-car,  homeward-bound,  she  was  abruptly  smitten 
with  amazement  to  find  herself  in  Fowey's  arms,  sub- 
mitting to  his  kisses  if  not  returning  them. 

For  a  time  she  remained  so  and  let  him  talk  love  to  her. 

It  was  pleasant,  to  be  —  wanted.  .  .  . 

Arrived  at  the  little  flat,  she  had  to  prevent  Fowey's 
following  her  in,  again  by  main  strength,  slamming  the 
door  in  his  face. 

Bolting  the  door,  she  turned  to  a  mirror  "  to  see  what 
a  fright  she  must  have  looked."  But  it  seemed  a  radiant 
vision  that  smiled  back  at  her. 

She  thought  hazily  of  Hubert  Fowey. 

"  That  kid !  "  she  murmured,  not  altogether  in  con- 
tempt, but  almost  compassionately. 

It  was  a  shame  to  tease  him  so.  ... 

Not  until  the  next  day,  that  dawned  upon  her  con- 
sciousness amid  the  thunders  of  a  splitting  headache,  did 
she  appreciate  how  far  the  affair  had  gone. 

Penitent,  she  vowed  reformation.  She  was  n't  going 
to  let  any  man  think  he  could  make  a  fool  of  her,  much 
less  that  conceited  little  whippersnapper. 

As  it  happened,  she  did  n't  see  the  amateur  dramatist 
again  for  some  days.  He,  too,  had  vowed  reformation, 
and  on  much  the  same  moral  grounds. 

Her  appointment  with  Matthias,  for  Wednesday  at 
four,  Joan  failed  to  keep.  And  since  that  was  her  own 
affair,  and  since  she  had  not  left  him  her  address,  Mat- 
thias kept  to  himself  the  word  that  he  had  for  her  and,  in 
accordance  with  his  original  intention,  boarded  the  Bar 
Harbor  Express  that  same  evening,  and  forgot  New  York 
for  upwards  of  ten  weeks. 

It  had  rained  all  day  Tuesday,  and  Wednesday  was 
overcast  but  dry  and,  by  contrast  with  what  had  been, 
cool.  Dressing  for  her  interview  with  Matthias,  Joan 
donned  a  summery  gown  of  lawn,  liberally  inset  with 


JOAN    THURSDAY  325 

lacework  over  her  shoulders  and  bosom:  a  frock  for 
the  country-house  or  the  seashore,  never  for  the  Broadway 
pavements.  None  the  less  it  was  quite  too  pretty  to  be 
wasted  on  Matthias  alone.  She  set  out  to  keep  her  ap- 
pointment with  an  hour  to  spare,  purposing  to  employ 
the  interval  by  running,  at  leisure,  the  gauntlet  of  mas- 
culine admiration  on  Broadway  as  far  south  as  Thirty- 
eighth  Street.  For  this  expedition  she  would  have  pre- 
ferred company;  but  Hattie,  having  looked  her  over, 
announced  that  she  couldn't  dress  up  to  Joan's  style, 
did  n't  mean  to  try,  and  did  n't  care  to  be  used  as  a 
foil;  furthermore,  it  was  much  more  sensible  to  loaf 
round  the  flat  in  little  or  no  clothing  at  all,  and  read 
up  on  Pinero. 

From  the  Astor  Theatre  corner  Joan  struck  across 
Broadway  to  the  eastern  sidewalk,  chiefly  to  avoid  the 
throng  of  loungers  in  front  of  the  Bryant  Building :  it  is 
good  to  be  admired,  but  Joan  had  little  taste  for  the  form 
of  admiration  that  becomes  vocal  at  once  intimately  and 
publicly. 

Half-way  down  the  New  York  Theatre  Building  block, 
she  turned  abruptly  and  scuttled  like  a  frightened  quail 
into  the  lobby,  from  the  back  of  which,  turning,  she  was 
able  to  see,  without  being,  seen  by,  Quard. 

Brief  as  the  term  of  their  dissociation  was,  in  mere  point 
of  elapsed  time,  Joan  had  so  completely  divorced  herself 
from  her  husband  that  she  was  actually  beginning  to 
forget  him;  physically  no  less  than  mentally  she  was 
beginning  to  forget  him.  An  outcast  from  her  life,  he 
no  longer  had  any  real  existence  in  her  world.  By  some 
curious  freak  of  sophistry  she  had  even  managed  to 
persuade  herself  she  was  never  to  see  him  again.  Thus 
it  seemed  the  most  staggering  shock  she  had  ever  expe- 
rienced, to  recognize  the  man's  head  and  shoulders  loom- 
ing above  the  throng  before  the  entrance  to  the  moving- 
picture  show,  just  south  of  the  lobby  to  the  New  York 
Theatre  proper. 


326  JOAN    THURSDAY 

But  Quard  had  n't  seen  her.  He  was  with  companions, 
a  brace  of  vaudeville  actors  whom  Joan  knew  through  him. 
But  while  she  waited  for  them  to  pass,  two  other  friends 
accosted  the  three,  directly  before  the  lobby  entrance,  and 
they  paused  to  exchange  greetings.  Quard  slapped  both 
newcomers  on  their  shoulders,  and  kept  his  hand  on  the 
last  he  slapped,  bending  forward  and  engaging  their  inter- 
est with  some  intimate  bit  of  ribaldry.  He  had  been 
drinking  —  Joan  saw  that  much  at  a  glance  —  not  heavily, 
but  enough  to  render  his  good-fellowship  boisterous. 

Otherwise  he  looked  well.  He  was  hardly  to  be  iden- 
tified with  that  sodden  wreck  which  had  been  brought  from 
the  Barbary  Coast  back  to  the  woman  he  had  insulted 
and  abused.  His  colour  was  good,  his  poise  assured.  He 
was  wearing  new  clothing  —  a  loud  shepherd's-plaid  effect 
which  Joan  couldn't  possibly  have  forgotten.  No  one 
could  possibly  have  forgotten  it.  And  he  had  acquired 
a  dashing  Panama  hat  which  at  least  looked  genuine  at 
that  slight  distance.  Useless  to  have  wasted  pity  on  the 
man:  he  had  fallen,  but  not  far,  and  he  had  fallen  on 
his  feet. 

Joan  eyed  him  with  fear,  despair,  and  loathing. 

Had  he  come  to  render  New  York  too  small  to  contain 
them  both? 

She  skulked  in  the  farthest  corner  of  the  lobby,  in  shad- 
ows, not  quite  round  the  corner  of  the  elevator  shaft  — 
where  she  could  just  see  and  ran  least  risk  of  being  seen 
—  and  waited.  But  the  group  on  the  sidewalk  seemed  to 
have  settled  down  to  a  protracted  session.  When  Quard 
had  finished  talking,  and  the  laughter  had  quieted  down, 
another  fixed  the  attention  of  the  group  with  a  second 
anecdote,  of  what  nature  Joan  could  well  surmise. 

Of  course,  it  was  only  a  question  of  time  before  Quard 
would  propose  a  drink. 

Then  she  would  be  free  to  proceed  to  her  appointment. 

But  through  some  oversight  the  suggestion  remained 
temporarily  in  abeyance;  and  Joan  was  unlucky  in  that 


JOAN    THURSDAY  327 

none  of  the  policemen  appeared,  who  are  assigned  to  the 
business  of  keeping  actors  moving  in  that  neighbourhood. 

After  a  minute  or  two  Quard  shifted  his  position  so 
that  he  could,  by  simply  lifting  his  eyes,  have  looked 
directly  into  the  lobby. 

At  this  Joan  turned  in  desperation  and  entered  the  cage 
of  an  elevator,  which  happened  just  then  to  be  waiting 
with  an  open  gate. 

There  were  several  theatrical  enterprises  with  offices  on 
one  of  the  upper  floors :  no  reason  why  Joan  should  n't 
wait  in  one  of  these  until  it  would  be  safe  to  venture  forth 
again.  There  was  Arlington's,  for  instance. 

Joan's  was  no  strange  figure  there.  She  had  long  since 
made  several  attempts  to  see  Arlington  or  one  of  his 
lieutenants;  but  her  professional  cards,  borne  in  to  them 
by  a  disillusioned  office-boy,  had  educed  no  other  response 
than  "  Mist'  Arlington  says  they 's  nothin'  doin'  just' 
present." 

But  it  was  as  good  a  place  as  any  for  Joan's  purpose, 
and  there  could  be  no  harm  trying  again. 

The  same  world-weary  boy  received  her  card  when  she 
entered  the  suite  of  offices.  He  considered  it,  and  Joan 
as  well,  dispassionately. 

"  Whoja  wanna  see  ? "  he  mumbled  with  patent  effort. 

Joan's  prettiest  smile  was  apparently  wasted  upon  the 
temperament  of  an  anchorite. 

"  Mr.  Arlington,  please." 

The  boy  offered  to  return  the  card :  "  He  ain't  in." 

"  That 's  what  you  always  tell  me." 

"  He  ain't  never  in." 

"  Very  well,"  said  Joan  sweetly :   "  I  '11  wait." 

The  boy  started  to  say  something  pointed,  hesitated, 
regarded  her  with  dull  suspicion,  and  suddenly  enquired: 

"  Whaja  wanna  see  'm  'bout?  " 

"  A  matter  of  private  business." 

"  Ah,"  drawled  the  boy  with  infinite  disgust,  "  tha's 
what  they  all  say !  "  An  embittered  grimace  shaped  upon 


328  JOAN    THURSDAY 

his  soiled  face.  "  Lis'n !  "  he  said,  almost  affably  —  "  if 
yuh  '11  think  up  a  good  one,  I  '11  fetch  this  inta  his 
sec't'ry.  Now  cud  anythin'  be  fairer  'n  that  ?  " 

"  I  '11  go  you,"  Joan  retorted,  falling  in  with  his  spirit. 
"  Tell  him  a  friend  of  Mr.  Marbridge's  wants  to  see 
him." 

She  esteemed  this  a  rather  brilliant  bit  of  diplomacy, 
and  at  the  same  time  considered  herself  stupid  not  to 
have  thought  of  it  before.  But  it  failed  to  move  the 
office-boy.  His  head  signalled  a  negative. 

"  Havta  do  better  'n  that,"  he  announced.  "  If  I  fell 
for  eVry  wren  what  claims  she  's  a  nintimate  frien'  of 
Mista  Marbridge  —  " 

"  But  I  am  a  friend  of  his  —  truly  I  am !  "  Joan  in- 
sisted warmly. 

The  boy  rammed  a  hand  into  a  trouser's-pocket. 
"  Betcha  —  "  he  began ;  but  reconsidered.  "  Yuh  never 
can  tell  'bout  a  skirt,"  he  reminded  himself  audibly. 
"  But,  jus'  to  prove  I  'm  a  sport,  I  '11  go  yuh." 

Motioning  Joan  through  the  door  of  the  reception 
room,  he  shambled  off  with  an  air  of  questioning  his  own 
sanity. 

The  reception  room  was  perhaps  thirty  feet  long  by 
fifteen  wide:  an  interior  room,  lighted,  and  none  too 
well,  by  electricity,  ventilated,  when  at  all,  through  the 
doorways  of  adjoining  offices.  A  row  of  cane-seated  chairs 
was  aligned  against  the  inner  wall.  In  the  middle  of 
the  floor  stood  a  broad  and  substantial  table  of  oak ;  it  was 
absolutely  bare.  Here  and  there  a  few  unhappy  litho- 
graphs, yellowing  "  life-size "  photographs  of  dead  or 
otherwise  extinguished  stars,  and  a  framed  play-bill  or 
two  of  Arlington's  earlier  ventures,  decorated  the  dingy 
drab  wall.  There  was  no  floor-covering  of  any  description. 

In  this  room  herded  some  two-score  people  of  the  stage, 
waiting  hopefully  for  interviews  that  were,  as  a  rule, 
granted  to  not  more  than  one  applicant  in  ten:  a  hetero- 
geneous assemblage,  owning  a  single  characteristic  in 


JOAN    THURSDAY  329 

common :  whenever,  at  the  far  end  of  the  room,  the  door 
opened  leading  to  the  offices  of  the  management,  every 
head  turned  that  way,  and  every  voice  was  hushed  in 
reverence. 

Yet  it  was  seldom  that  the  door  disclosed  anything  more 
unique  than  a  second  office-boy,  even  more  dejected  than 
the  first,  who,  peering  through,  would,  after  examining 
the  card  in  his  hand  for  the  name  of  the  applicant,  pain- 
fully recite  some  stereotyped  phrase  worn  smooth  — 
"  Mista  Brown  ?  Y'ur  party  says  t'  come  back  next 
week !  "  "  Miss  Holman  ?  Y'ur  party  's  went  out  'n' 
won't  be  back  th'safternoon !  "  "  Miss  Em'rson  ?  Mista 
Arlington  says  ever'thin's  full  up  just'present.  Call  'n 
ag'in !  "  or  more  infrequently :  "  Mista  Grayson  's  t'  step 
in,  please."  .  .  . 

Joan  found  a  vacant  chair. 

She  had  no  hope  whatever  of  being  admitted  to  the 
Presence,  despite  the  unexpected  condescension  of  the 
office-boy.  Marbridge's  name  might  prove  the  Open 
Sesame;  but  she  doubted  that  vaguely:  "it  wouldn't  be 
her  if  that  happened !  " 

The  atmosphere  was  stifling  with  heat  complicated  by 
stale  human  breath  and  the  reek  of  perfumery,  all  strati- 
fied with  layers  of  tobacco  smoke  which  entered  over  the 
transoms  of  the  communicating  offices.  Above  the  muted 
murmurings  of  the  unemployed's  apprehensive  voices 
could  be  heard  the  brisk  chattering  of  two  or  three  type- 
writing machines;  and  telephone  bells  rang  incessantly, 
near  and  far,  one  taking  up  the  tune  as  soon  as  another 
ended.  The  throng  of  applicants  shuffled  their  feet  un- 
easily, expectantly,  morosely. 

Joan  was  so  uncomfortable  and  oppressed  that  she  was 
tempted  to  rise  and  go  without  waiting  for  the  discounted 
answer.  Only  dread  of  encountering  Quard  restrained 
her.  The  longer  she  delayed,  the  slighter  the  chance  of 
finding  him  still  in  front  of  the  theatre.  .  .  . 

Her  thoughts  drifted  into  reverie  dully  coloured  with 


330  JOAN    THURSDAY 

misgivings.  She  thought  of  Charlie  Quard  as  a  bird  of 
ill-omen  whose  appearance  could  presage  nothing  but  suf- 
fering and  disaster;  ignoring  altogether  the  truth,  that 
through  his  good  offices  alone,  however  tainted  with  self- 
interest,  she  had  been  suffered  to  enter  into  the  profession 
whose  ranks  she  had  elected  to  adorn;  with  that  other 
truth,  that  she  owed  him  for  the  clothing  she  wore,  the 
food  she  ate,  the  very  roof  that  sheltered  her  —  and  meant 
never  to  repay.  .  .  . 

The  voice  of  the  second  office-boy  chanted  her  name 
twice  before  she  heard  it. 

"  Miss  Thursd'y  ?  .  .  .  Miss  Joan  Thursd'y  ?  " 

Joan  started  to  her  feet. 

"Yes  —  ?" 

"  Th'  party  you  ast  for  says  please  t'  step  this  way !  " 


xxxir 

BETWEEN  gratification  and  misgivings,  Joan  followed 
her  guide  in  a  flutter  of  emotion.  When  intending  nothing 
more  than  to  provide  an  excuse  for  using  the  anteroom 
as  a  temporary  refuge,  she  hadn't  for  an  instant  ques- 
tioned her  right  to  use  Marbridge's  name.  But  now  that 
it  appeared  she  was  to  gain  thereby  the  boon  of  an  audience 
with  Arlington,  she  was  torn  by  doubts. 

After  all,  her  acquaintance  with  Marbridge  had  been 
one  of  the  most  tenuous  description.  True,  the  man  had 
seemed  attracted  by  her  at  the  time;  but  that  was  many 
months  ago;  and  only  recently  he  had  looked  her  fair  in 
the  face  without  knowing  her.  She  had  really  gained  her 
advantage  through  false  pretences.  And  when  Marbridge 
learned  of  this,  would  he  not  resent  it?  Had  she  not, 
through  her  presumption,  put  herself  in  the  way  of  de- 
feating her  own  ends? 

She  brought  up  before  a  closed  door  in  a  state  of  ner- 
vousness not  natural  with  her. 

"  You  're  to  wait  a  minute,"  her  guide  advised. 

She  was  thankful  he  was  n't  the  guardian  of  the  outer 
defences :  just  at  present  she  was  in  no  fit  mood  to  bandy 
persiflage  successfully. 

But  she  was  uncomfortably  conscious  that  this  present 
boy  eyed  her  curiously  as  he  threw  open  the  office  door. 

She  entered,  and  he  closed  it  after  her. 

The  room  was  untenanted,  but  a  haze  of  cigar  smoke  in 
the  air  indicated  that  it  had  been  only  recently  vacated. 
It  was  handsomely  furnished,  carpeted  and  decorated. 
The  broad,  flat-topped  desk  in  one  corner  boasted  an 
elaborate  display  of  ornate  desk  hardware.  In  the  middle 


382  JOAN    THURSDAY 

of  the  blotting-pad  a  sheaf  of  letters  lay  beneath  a  bronze 
paperweight  of  unique  design.  All  in  all,  an  office  owning 
little  in  common  with  the  generality  of  those  to  which 
Joan  had  theretofore  penetrated.  .  .  . 

She  sat  herself  down  uneasily. 

A  door  communicating  with  the  adjoining  office,  though 
a  solid  door  of  oak,  was  an  inch  or  so  ajar.  Through  it 
penetrated  sounds  of  masculine  voices  in  conversation  — 
but  nothing  distinguishable. 

Five  minutes  passed.  Then  the  conference  in  the  next 
room  broke  up  amid  laughter ;  the  doorknob  rattled ;  and 
Joan  rose  automatically. 

Marbridge  entered. 

For  a  moment,  in  her  surprise  and  consternation,  Joan 
could  only  stare  and  stammer.  But  obvious  though  her 
agitation  was,  Marbridge  ignored  it  gracefully.  Shutting 
the  door  tight,  he  advanced  with  an  outstretched  hand  and 
a  smile  there  was  no  resisting  —  with,  in  short,  every 
normal  evidence  of  friendly  pleasure  in  their  meeting. 

"  Well,  Miss  Thursday !  "  he  said,  gratification  in  his 
carefully  modulated  voice.  "  This  is  public-spirited  of 
you!" 

Joan  shook  hands  limply,  her  face  crimson  beneath  his 
pardonably  admiring  stare. 

"I  —  thank  you  —  but  —  " 

"  Really,"  he  went  on  smoothly,  "  I  consider  it  mighty 
nice  of  you  to  look  me  up.  Fancy  your  remembering 
me!  Do  sit  down.  We  must  have  a  chat.  Fortunately, 
you  Ve  caught  me  in  an  off-hour." 

Retaining  her  hand  coolly  enough,  he  introduced  the 
girl  to  a  capacious  lounge-chair  beside  the  desk,  then 
settled  himself  behind  it. 

Joan  shook  her  wits  together. 

"You'reawflykind  — ' 

"I  —  kind ?  "  Marbridge  denied  the  implication  with 
an  indulgent  smile.  "  My  dear  Miss  Thursday,  if  you 
get  to  know  me  well  —  and  I  sincerely  hope  you  will 


JOAN    THURSDAY  333 

some  day  —  you  '11  find  there  's  not  a  spark  of  human 
generosity  in  my  system.  I  think  only  of  my  own  pleas- 
ure. How  can  there  be  kindness  to  you  in  my  seizing 
this  chance  to  improve  our  acquaintance?  I  declare,  I 
thought  you  'd  forgotten  me !  " 

"  Oh,  no !  "  Joan  protested. 

"  Really  ?  That 's  charming  of  you.  But  tell  me  about 
yourself.  How  long  have  you  been  back  ?  " 

"  Not  long,"  Joan  replied  instinctively  to  the  first 
stock  question  that  marks  every  other  similar  meeting  in 
the  theatrical  district  of  New  York.  "  That  is  —  I  mean 
—  a  couple  of  months." 

"  Oh,  then  you  did  n't  stay  with  '  The  Lie  '  ?  " 

"  You  knew  about  that  ?  " 

Marbridge  nodded  briskly.  "  Indeed,  I  did !  Pete 
Gloucester  told  me  all  about  you  —  how  splendidly  you 
were  doing  at  rehearsals  —  and  then,  one  afternoon  in 
Chicago,  I  saw  the  sketch  billed  and  dropped  in  at  the 
theatre  for  the  sole  purpose  of  seeing  you.  And  if  I 
had  n't  had  a  train  to  catch,  I  'd  have  come  right  round 
back  to  congratulate  you.  Fact!  You  were  wonderful. 
You  were  more  than  wonderful:  you  were  downright 
adorable,  and  no  mistake !  " 

Under  the  tonic  stimulus  of  his  flattery,  Joan  recovered 
her  self-possession  with  surprising  readiness  —  so  swiftly 
that  she  almost  forgot  to  cover  the  phenomenon  with  pro- 
longed evidences  of  pretty  confusion. 

She  looked  down,  her  colour  high,  and  smiling  traced 
with  a  gloved  forefinger  an  invisible  seam  in  her  skirt; 
and  then,  looking  up  shyly,  she  appraised  Marbridge  with 
one  quick,  shrewd,  masked  glance. 

Her  instinct  had  not  misled  her :  this  man  esteemed  her 
at  a  high  value. 

"  It 's  awf 'ly  kind  of  you  to  say  so,"  she  murmured 
demurely. 

Marbridge  bent  forward,  leaning  on  the  desk,  his  gaze 
ardent. 


334  JOAN    THURSDAY 

"  I  only  say  what  I  think,  Miss  Thursday.  I 
watched  you  act  that  afternoon  —  and  so  far  as  I  was 
concerned,  you  were  the  whole  sketch !  —  and  made  up 
my  mind  then  and  there  you  were  a  girl  with  a  great 
big  future." 

"  Oh,  but  really,  Mr.  Marbridge  —  " 

"  Give  you  my  word !  I  said  to  myself  then  and  there : 
'  Here  's  a  little  woman  worth  watching,  and  if  ever  I 
get  a  chance  to  lend  her  a  helping  hand  and  don't  do 
it,  I  'd  better  quit  fussing  with  this  theatrical  game.' 
And  that  was  the  effect  of  seeing  you  play  just  once, 
mind  you !  " 

"  I  'm  afraid  you  're  a  dreadful  kidder,  Mr.  Mar- 
bridge." 

His  injured  look  was  eloquent  of  the  injustice  that 
she  did  him. 

"  You  don't  believe  me  ?  Very  well,  Miss  Thursday 
—  wait !  Some  day  I  '11  surprise  you."  He  swung  back 
in  his  chair,  smiling  genially.  "  Some  one  of  these  days 
you  '11  set  your  heart  on  something  I  have  the  say  in  — 
and  then  you  '11  be  able  to  judge  of  my  sincerity." 

"  If  I  dared  believe  you,"  Joan  told  him  boldly,  "  I 
might  put  you  to  the  test  sooner  than  you  think." 

"  Well,  and  why  not  ?    I  'm  ready."* 

But  as  Joan  would  have  gone  on,  the  desk-telephone 
rang  sharply,  and  Marbridge,  excusing  himself  with  a 
mumbled  apology,  turned  to  the  instrument  and  lifted 
the  receiver  to  his  ear. 

"  Hello.  .  .  .  Who  ?  .  .  .  Oh,  send  her  in  to  see  Mr. 
Arlington.  .  .  .  Oh,  he  did,  eh  ?  ...  Well,  say  I  'm 
not  in  either.  .  .  .  Yes,  gone  for  the  day." 

Replacing  the  instrument,  he  swung  round  again. 
"  There 's  proof  already,"  he  informed  her  cheerfully. 
"  That  was  Nella  Cardrow  —  one  of  the  biggest  proposi- 
tions on  our  list  —  star  of  l  Mrs.  Mixer.'  And  I  'm  put- 
ting her  off  solely  to  show  you  how  sincerely  I  'm  in- 
terested in  what  you  have  to  say  to  me."  He  bent  forward 


JOAN    THURSDAY  335 

again,  confidentially.  "  Now  tell  me :  what  can  I  do  for 
you?" 

"  Give  me  a  job,"  Joan  informed  him  honestly. 
"  That 's  all  I  want  just  now  —  work  —  a  part  in  any- 
thing you  have  influence  with." 

"Then  you  have  left  'The  Lie'?"  Marbridge  per- 
sisted incredulously. 

Joan  nodded.  "  I  had  to.  I  could  n't  stand  it  any 
longer." 

"  But  —  without  you  —  why,  I  don't  know  what  they 
were  thinking  of,  to  let  you  go !  " 

"  I  just  could  n't  get  along  with  the  star,  and  that 's 
all  there  was  to  it,"  Joan  declared.  "  He  was  a  boozer 
and  —  well,  I  had  to  quit." 

"And  the  sketch  —  " 

"  Oh,  it  went  on,  all  right,  I  guess." 

"  Without  you !  Well,  that 's  hard  to  credit.  How- 
ever .  .  ."  Marbridge  leaned  back  and  for  a  moment 
stared  thoughtfully  out  of  the  window.  "  I  really  can't 
think  of  anything  we  've  got  open  just  now  that 's  good 
enough  to  offer  you." 

"  Please  don't  think  of  me  that  way,  Mr.  Marbridge," 
Joan  pleaded  earnestly,  more  than  half  deceived.  "  I  'm 
ready  for  anything,  to  get  a  chance  to  show  these  people 
what  I  can  do.  Anything  —  however  small  —  just  so  it 
gives  me  a  show  —  I  don't  care  what !  " 

Marbridge  preserved  admirably  his  look  of  intent 
gravity.  "  Let  me  think  a  moment,"  he  requested,  purs- 
ing his  full  lips. 

Joan  watched  him  closely  through  that  brief  silence, 
her  mood  one  of  curious  texture,  compounded  in  almost 
equal  parts  of  hope  and  doubt,  of  wonder  and  misgivings, 
of  appreciation  of  her  own  courage  and  shrewdness,  and 
of  admiration  for  Marbridge. 

He  was  by  no  means  what  she  would  have  termed 
handsome,  but  he  was  uncommonly  individual,  a  per- 
sonality that  left  an  ineffaceable  impression  of  strength 


336  JOAN    THURSDAY 

and  masculinity;  and  with  this  he  had  an  air  of  being 
finished  and  complete,  as  though  he  not  only  knew  better 
than  most  how  to  take  care  of  himself  in  all  ways,  but 
slighted  himself  in  none.  She  thought  his  mode  of  dress 
striking,  combining  distinction  and  taste  to  an  extraor- 
dinary degree.  .  .  .  And  when  in  his  abstraction  he 
pinched  his  chin  gently  between  thumb  and  forefinger, 
she  was  impressed  with  the  discovery  that  a  man's  hand 
could  be  at  once  well-manicured  and  muscular.  .  .  . 

He  turned  back  abruptly  with  a  sparkle  of  enthusiasm 
in  his  bold  and  prominent  eyes. 

"  By  George,  I  think  I  have  it  .  .  . !  " 

"  Yes  —  ?  "  she  breathed  excitedly. 

He  considered  an  instant  longer,  shook  his  head,  and 
jumped  up.  "  I  must  consult  Arlington  first,"  he  de- 
clared. "  I  would  n't  care  to  commit  him  without  his 
consent.  No  —  don't  get  up.  Just  excuse  me  one  minute. 
I  '11  be  right  back." 

And  before  she  could  protest  —  had  she  entertained  the 
faintest  idea  of  doing  anything  of  the  sort  —  he  left  the 
room  by  the  same  door  which  had  admitted  him. 

Immediately  she  was  again  aware  of  a  rumble  of  voices 
in  the  next  office,  but  now  it  was  even  more  indefinite. 

And  again  she  waited  a  full  five  minutes  alone.  .  .  . 

When  Marbridge  rejoined  her,  it  was  with  an  air 
apologetic  and  disappointed. 

"  It 's  too  bad,"  he  announced,  aggrieved,  "  but  it  seems 
Arlington  has  really  gone  for  the  day.  I  shan't  see  him 
before  evening,  likely,  possibly  not  until  tomorrow.  So 
I  must  ask  you  to  trouble  yourself  to  come  back,  if  you 
don't  mind." 

"  Mind !  "  Joan  laughed,  rising.    "  Oh,  I  guess  not." 

"  Well,"  Marbridge  assured  her,  "  I  don't  think  you  '11 
have  any  wasted  time  to  regret.  But  I  can't  promise 
anything  until  I  'm  sure  Arlington  has  n't  made  other 
arrangements,  or  until  I  've  managed  to  put  a  crimp  into 
'em  if  he  has." 


JOAN    THURSDAY  337 

"  But  you  must  n't  do  that  —  " 

"  Hush !  "  Marbridge  paused  to  chuckle  infectuously. 
"  There  's  one  trouble,"  he  amended,  more  gravely,  "  and 
that  is,  I  have  n't  got  any  too  much  time.  I  'm  booked 
to  sail  for  Europe  Saturday,  and  have  got  so  many  little 
things  to  attend  to,  I  'm  running  round  in  circles.  But 
don't  you  fret :  I  Ve  got  this  matter  right  next  to  my 
heart,  Miss  Thursday,  and  I  'm  going  to  put  it  through 
if  it  humanly  can  be  done.  Now  let  me  think  when  I 
can  ask  you  to  call  again." 

"  Any  time  that  suits  your  convenience,  Mr. 
Marbridge." 

"  Well,  it 's  a  question.  I  'd  like  mighty  well  to  have 
you  lunch  with  me  before  I  go,  but  .  .  .  The  truth  is,  I 
have  n't  got  hardly  a  minute  unengaged.  You  just  hap- 
pened to  catch  me  right,  today.  ...  I  wonder  if  you 
could  call  in  Friday,  say,  about  half -past  three  ?  " 

"  Of  course  I  can,  but  I  don't  want  you  to  —  " 

"  Did  n't  I  tell  you,  hush !  "  Marbridge  interrupted, 
mock-impatient.  "  Not  another  word.  Remember  what 
I  told  you  about  how  I  felt  that  day  I  saw  you  act,  out  in 
Chicago.  The  time,  's  coming  when  I  'm  going  to  be  pow- 
erful' glad  you  gave  me  this  chance  to  give  you  a  lift, 
Miss  Thursday.  And  then  "  —  he  paused  in  the  act  of 
opening  the  door,  and  took  Joan's  hand,  subjecting  it  to 
a  firm,  friendly  pressure  before  continuing  —  "  and  then, 
perhaps,  I  '11  be  coming  round  and  begging  favours  of  you." 

For  an  instant  Joan's  eyes  endured,  without  a  tremor, 
the  quick  searching  probe  of  the  man's. 

She  nodded  quietly,  saying  in  a  grave  voice :  "  I  guess 
you  won't  have  to  beg  very  hard  —  not  for  anything  I 
could  ever  do  for  you,  Mr.  Marbridge." 

His  smile  was  as  spontaneous  and  bright  as  a  child's. 
"  It 's  a  bargain !  "  he  declared  spiritedly.  "  And  you 
can  bet  your  life  I  won't  forget  my  end  of  it !  .  .  .  Good 
afternoon,  Miss  Thursday.  Remember  —  Friday  at 
three-thirty."  .  .  . 


XXXIII 

As  one  result  of  her  interview  with  Marbridge,  Joan 
returned  to  her  quarters  in  a  state  of  thoughtfulness  which 
was  responsible  not  only  for  her  forgetting  the  appoint- 
ment with  Matthias  and  the  risk  she  ran  of  encountering 
Quard  at  every  corner,  but  also  for  her  unquestioning 
acceptance  of  Hattie's  absence  from  the  flat  in  the  face 
of  her  expressed  determination  not  to  go  out  that 
afternoon. 

Hattie,  however,  was  nothing  loath  to  explain  her  change 
of  mind  when  she  blew  in  cheerfully  shortly  before 
dinner-time. 

"  Hello !  "  she  exclaimed,  tossing  her  hat  one  way  and 
her  parasol  another.  "  Did  you  miss  me  ?  " 

Joan  looked  up  blankly  from  the  depths  of  her  musing. 
"  No,"  she  said  dully.  "  Why  ?  " 

"  Well,  you  went  off  half -peeved  because  I  would  n't 
go  trapesing  with  you  —  and  then  I  went  out  after  all." 

"Oh  —  I  'd  forgotten,"  Joan  admitted  without  much 
interest. 

"  Well,  I  did  n't  mean  to  go  out,  but  Billy  Emerson 
sent  me  a  tip  and  ...  I  bet  you  can't  guess  who  I  've 
seen." 

Joan  shook  her  head. 

"Arlington!" 

"  Arlington !  "   Joan  exclaimed. 

"Well,  and  why  not?" 

"  Nothing  —  only  I  thought  you  were  n't  looking  for 
anything  in  musical  shows." 

"  No  more  am  I,  and  it  was  n't  a  musical  show  I  went 
to  see  him  about.  Billy  sent  me  a  card  of  introduction 


JOAN    THURSDAY  339 

with  the  tip,  and  Arlington  saw  me  and  —  well,  I  guess 
it 's  just  about  settled.  I  'm  to  understudy  Nella  Cardrow 
in  '  Mrs.  Mixer.'  Arlington  would  n't  promise,  but  told 
me  to  come  in  Saturday  morning,  and  the  understanding 
is  he  '11  have  contracts  ready  to  sign  then.  I  do  believe 
my  luck  's  turned  at  last !  " 

"  But,"  Joan  argued,  perplexed,  "  I  don't  under- 
stand. ...  Of  course,  it 's  fine  to  get  the  job,  and  all 
that  —  and  I  'm  awf ' ly  glad  for  you,  Hattie  —  but  you 
act  as  excited  as  if  it  was  the  title  role  you  expected  to 
play." 

"Maybe  I  do,"  Hattie  retorted.  "That's  what  an 
understudy  's  for,  is  n't  it  —  to  play  the  star  part  in  case 
of  an  emergency  ?  " 

"Yes,  but  — " 

"  Anyhow,  I  don't  mind  telling  you  that 's  what  I  'm 
looking  forward  to." 

"  You  mean  you  think  Mrs.  Cardrow  —  ? " 

"  Now  don't  you  ask  me  any  questions ;  I  can't  tell  you 
what  I  think ;  it 's  a  secret."  Having  made  this  state- 
ment, Hattie  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  the  bed,  lighted  a 
cigarette,  vacillated  one  second,  and  proceeded  to  divulge 
the  secret :  "  You  see,  I  called  around  to  thank  Billy 
Emerson,  after  my  talk  with  Arlington,  and  he  told  me 
the  whole  story  in  confidence.  Nobody 's  to  know  it  yet, 
so  you  must  n't  breathe  a  word  to  anybody ;  but  the  thing 's 
all  fixed,  and  ISTella  Cardrow  's  never  going  to  play  '  Mrs. 
Mixer '  before  a  Broadway  audience.  She  could  n't  play 
it  anyhow  —  's  just  a  plain-boiled  dub  —  never  did  any- 
thing before  she  persuaded  Marbridge  to  put  her  on  in 
this  show.  It 's  his  money  that 's  behind  it,  mostly  — 
Arlington  's  too  wise  to  risk  much  on  an  uncertain  prop- 
osition like  the  Cardrow.  Marbridge  just  hides  behind 
Arlington." 

"What  for?" 

"  Well,  I  guess  he  figures  home  would  be  none  the 
happier  if  Friend  Wife  knew  he  was  footing  the  bills  for 


340  JOAN    THURSDAY 

Nella  Cardrow's  show.  He  and  Cardrow,  Billy  Emerson 
says,  are  just  about  as  friendly  as  the  law  allows  —  and 
that  is  n't  all." 

"  But,"  Joan  persisted  stupidly,  "  if  that 's  the  case,  I 
don't  see  what  makes  you  think  he  '11  throw  her  down  to 
give  you  the  part  —  " 

"  If  they  ever  caught  anybody  on  Broadway  as  innocent 
as  you  pretend  to  be,"  Hattie  commented  with  a  scorn 
for  grammar  as  deep  as  for  Joan's  obtuseness  —  "  they  'd 
arrest  'em,  that 's  all !  Who  ever  told  you  Marbridge  was 
the  kind  of  a  guy  to  stick  to  a  woman  forever  —  not  to 
say  when  she  's  losing  money  for  him  ?  Billy  Emerson 
saw  the  show  when  they  put  it  on  up  in  Buffalo,  a  while 
ago,  and  he  says  the  play  's  a  wonder  but  Cardrow  can't 
even  look  the  part,  much  less  act  it.  He  says  if  they  ever 
let  her  loose  on  the  stage  of  a  Broadway  theatre  —  well, 
Marbridge  and  Arlington  can  just  kiss  their  investment 
a  fond  farewell.  For  reasons  of  his  own,  Marbridge  is  n't 
ready  to  break  with  Cardrow  yet,  but  he  knows  he  's  got 
a  big  success  on  his  hands  in  this  '  Mrs.  Mixer  '  with  her 
out  of  it.  So  they  're  going  right  ahead,  just  as  if  she 
was  to  be  the  star,  but  when  the  show  opens  it  '11  be  little 
Miss  Understudy  who  '11  do  all  the  acting." 

The  actress  tossed  aside  her  cigarette  and  bent  for- 
ward, regarding  Joan  with  mock  solicitude. 

"  Does  it  begin  to  penetrate,  dearie  ?  " 

"  It  sounds  to  me  like  a  pretty  mean  trick  to  play  on 
Mrs.  Cardrow,"  Joan  suggested. 

"  Don't  you  worry  about  her.  She  '11  survive,  all  right. 
And  anyhow,  when  you've  been  as  long  in  this  game  as 
I  have,  you  '11  realize  that  the  motto  of  the  profession  is 
'  Everybody  for  himself  and  the  devil  take  the  hinder- 
most  M  I  've  waited  seven  years  for  this  chance,  and 
I  'm  not  going  to  let  it  get  past  me  through  any  senti- 
mental considerations,  not  if  I  know  myself.  And  you  'd 
do  just  the  same  thing  in  my  place,  too." 

"  I  don't  see  what  right  you  've  got  to  say  that  —  " 


JOAN    THURSDAY  341 

"  Then  you  don't  know  yourself  as  well  as  I  know 
you,"  Hattie  laughed.  "  But  listen :  I  ought  n't  to 
have  told  you  all  this.  You  won't  say  anything,  will 
you,  dear  ?  " 

"  No,  I  won't  say  anything."  .  .  . 

NOT  did  Joan  consider  it  necessary  to  repay  confidence 
with  confidence  by  confessing  the  fact  of  her  coincidental 
interview  with  Marbridge.  The  reflection  that  they  must 
have  been  in  adjoining  offices  at  much  the  same  time,  in 
spite  of  Marbridge's  assertion  that  Arlington  was  out, 
counselled  reticence,  even  if  envy  had  n't  served  to  impose 
silence  upon  Joan.  And  she  was  profoundly  envious  of 
Hattie's  good  fortune. 

Why  could  it  not  have  been  her  own,  instead  ? 

If  Marbridge  honestly  esteemed  her  abilities  one-half 
as  highly  as  he  had  pretended  to,  why  could  he  not  have 
seen  to  it  that  Joan  Thursday  rather  than  Hattie  Morri- 
son was  selected  for  Mrs.  Cardrow's  understudy? 

Still,  the  matter  was  not  yet  definitely  settled.  Hattie's 
contract  remained  a  thing  of  the  future,  and  she  might  be 
congratulating  herself  prematurely. 

Struck  by  this  reflection,  Joan  withdrew  even  more 
jealously  into  her  reserve.  .  .  . 

But  she  anticipated  her  appointment  for  Friday  after- 
noon with  an  impatience  that  lent  each  hour  the  length 
of  three,  and  when  the  time  drew  near  prepared  herself 
for  it  with  such  exacting  attention  to  the  minutiae  of  her 
toilet  that  a  final  survey  in  a  cheval-glass  sent  her  forth 
radiant  with  consciousness  that  she  had  never  looked  more 
charming. 

To  her  surprise  and  somewhat  to  her  disappointment, 
Marbridge  did  n't  receive  her  alone.  She  was  shown  into 
Arlington's  office,  finding  there  Marbridge  in  company 
with  the  great  man  himself. 

Entrenched  behind  his  desk,  Arlington  did  n't  move 
when  she  entered,  and  only  when  Marbridge  formally 
presented  Joan  deigned  to  rise  half  out  of  his  chair  and 


342  JOAN    THURSDAY 

extend  to  her,  across  the  mahogany  barrier,  a  hand  almost 
effeminately  white,  soft,  and  bedizened  with  rings. 

"  Pleasure  to  meet  you,  Miss  Thursday,  I  'm  sure,"  he 
drawled,  his  clasp  as  languid  as  the  glance  with  which  he 
looked  Joan  over;  and  sank  wearily  back  into  his  chair. 
"  I  've  been  hearing  wonderful  things  about  you  —  ah  — 
from  Mr.  Marbridge." 

"  He  's  very  kind,"  said  Joan  in  her  best  manner. 

"  Not  at  all,"  Marbridge  protested.  "  I  Ve  only  been 
describing  how  splendid  your  work  was  in  '  The  Lie.' 
But  Mr.  Arlington  is  the  original  of  the  gentleman  from 
Missouri :  you  've  got  to  show  him.  However,  I  know 
you  can  —  so  that 's  all  right." 

"  Oh,  I  hope  so,"  Joan  replied  with  becoming  diffidence 
—  "if  I  ever  get  a  chance." 

"  You  '11  get  that,  never  fear,"  Arlington  observed  dis- 
passionately. "  Marbridge  has  fixed  it  all  up  for  you. 
It 's  a  risk,  a  pretty  big  risk  to  take  with  an  actress  of 
your  —  ah  —  comparative  inexperience,  but  as  a  rule  I 
find  it  advisable  to  give  Marbridge  his  head  when  he  sets 
his  heart  on  anything." 

"  You  're  awf  'ly  good,"  Joan  murmured. 

"  Don't  think  it,"  Arlington  returned  in  a  tone  of 
remote  amiability,  teetering  in  his  chair.  "  I  've  nothing 
whatever  to  do  with  it,  beyond  engaging  you  and  being 
responsible  for  your  salary.  It 's  all  Marbridge's  doing." 

He  examined  with  a  perplexed  air  his  highly  polished 
fingernails.  .  .  . 

"  You  're  to  have  a  small  part  in  a  new  comedy  we  're 
putting  on  next  September,"  he  announced,  "  and  at  the 
same  time  you  will  understudy  the  star  —  Nella  Cardrow 
in  '  Mrs.  Mixer.'  Your  salary  will  be  sixty  a  week  unless 
through  some  accident  you  're  called  upon  to  play  the  title 
role  regularly  —  and  accidents  will  happen  in  the  best 
regulated  theatrical  enterprises.  In  which  case  you  '11 
draw  one-hundred  a  week  for  the  first  season.  There  are 
some  details  which  Marbridge  will  explain  to  you  —  and 


JOAN    THURSDAY  343 

if  you  '11  drop  in  any  time  Monday  and  ask  for  Mr. 
Grissom  he  will  have  your  contracts  ready.  And  now  if 
you  '11  excuse  me,  I  've  an  appointment." 

Consulting  his  watch,  he  rose  and  moved  round  from 
behind  his  desk.  "  Good  day,  Miss  Thursday,"  he  said 
with  a  shadow  of  a  formal  smile.  "  I  shall  see  much  of 
you,  no  doubt,  when  the  rehearsals  begin." 

"  Oh,  thank  you  —  thank  you !  "  Joan  cried. 

Arlington  disclaimed  title  to  her  gratitude  with  a  weary 
gesture.  "  Don't  thank  me,  please  —  thank  Marbridge. 
.  .  .  You  won't  be  long,  Vin  ?  "  he  added,  at  the  door. 

"  I  '11  be  with  you  in  ten  minutes." 

"  Eight  you  are.  Good  afternoon,  Miss  —  ah  —  Thurs- 
day." .  .  ,_ 

Alone  with  Marbridge,  Joan  began  impulsively  to  pro- 
test her  thanks,  but  on  glancing  up,  fell  silent,  abashed 
by  an  expression  that  glowed  in  the  man's  eyes  like  a 
reflection  of  firelight. 

She  lowered  demure  lashes  to  cloak  her  confusion,  a 
smile  about  her  lips  at  once  sophisticated  and  timid:  a 
distractingly  pretty  woman  fully  conscious  of  her  allure 
and  of  his  attraction  for  her:  a  vision  of  provoking 
promise. 

Marbridge  drew  a  deep  breath. 

"  If  you  persist  in  looking  like  that,"  he  said  in  a  voice 
that  trembled  between  laughter  and  a  sigh  — "  don't 
blame  me  if  I  forget  myself  and  take  you  in  my  arms 
and  kiss  you.  There  are  limits  to  my  endurance  .  .  ." 

Joan  looked  up,  smiling. 

"  Well  — "  she  said  with  a  little  nervous  laugh  — 
"Well,  what  of  it?" 


XXXIV 

BEFORE  Joan  left  Marbridge,  they  had  arrived  at  an 
understanding  which  was  not  less  complete  and  satis- 
factory in  that  it  was  largely  implicit. 

Without  receiving  any  definite  explanation  of  the  cir- 
cumstances complicating  the  production  of  "  Mrs.  Mixer," 
Joan  carried  away  with  her  a  tolerably  clear  notion 
thereof,  both  confirming  and  supplementing  the  second- 
hand information  of  Hattie  Morrison. 

Mrs.  Cardrow  owned  a  heavy  interest  in  the  play,  Joan 
had  gathered;  and  there  existed,  as  well,  a  contract  be- 
tween her  and  Arlington  which  would  have  to  be  elimi- 
nated before  it  would  be  possible  to  go  ahead  and  make 
the  production  with  another  actress  in  place  of  the  erst- 
while star.  Some  very  delicate  diplomatic  manoeuvring 
was  indicated.  .  .  . 

Interim,  Joan  was  to  be  privately  drilled  by  Peter 
Gloucester  for  some  weeks  prior  to  calling  together  the 
full  company  to  rehearse  for  the  September  production. 
Gloucester  was  just  then  out  of  Town,  but  she  would  be 
advised  when  and  where  to  meet  him  on  his  return. 

Marbridge  was  to  be  absent  from  New  York  until  the 
middle  of  September  or  longer;  but  he  promised  to 
be  back  a  week  or  two  before  the  opening  performance. 

There  were  other  promises  exchanged  .  .  . 

With  her  future  thus  schemed,  the  girl  was  very  well 
content,  who  had  attained  by  easy  stages  to  one  of  mental 
development  in  which  those  primary  moral  distinctions 
upon  which  she  had  been  reared  were  no  longer  per- 
ceptible—  or,  if  perceptible,  had  diminished  to  purely 
negligible  stature. 


JOAN    THURSDAY  345 

It  was  not  in  nature  for  her  to  disdain  or  reject  her 
bargain  on  moral  grounds :  she  knew,  or  recognized,  none 
that  applied. 

For  over  a  year  during  the  most  impressionable  period 
of  her  life,  Joan  Thursday  had  breathed  the  atmosphere 
of  the  stage.  She  had  become  thoroughly  accustomed 
to  recognize  without  criticism  those  irregular  unions  and 
-•egular  disunions  that  characterized  the  lives  of  her  asso- 
ciates. She  had  observed  many  an  instance  where  the 
most  steadfast  and  loyal  love  existed  without  bonds  of 
any  sort,  and  as  many  where  it  existed  in  matrimony,  and 
as  many  again  where  neither  party  to  a  marriage  made 
aught  but  the  barest  pretence  of  fidelity. 

She  had  remarked  that  material  and  artistic  success 
seemed  to  depend  upon  neither  the  observance  nor  the 
disregard  of  sexual  morality.  She  knew  of  husbands 
and  wives  against  whom  scandal  uttered  no  whisper  and 
whose  talents  were  considerable,  but  who  had  struggled 
for  years  and  would  struggle  until  the  end  without  win- 
ning substantial  recognition.  And  she  knew  of  the  reverse. 
The  one  unpardonable  sin  in  her  world  was  the  sin  of 
drunkenness,  and  even  it  was  venial  except  when  it  "  held 
the  curtain  "  or  prevented  its  rising  altogether. 

As  far  as  concerned  her  attitude  toward  herself,  she 
considered  Joan  Thursday  above  reproach,  seeing  that  she 
had  withdrawn  from  her  marriage  long  before  even  as 
much  as  contemplating  any  man  other  than  her  husband. 
She  held  that  she  was  now  free,  at  liberty  to  do  as  she 
liked,  untrammelled  by  opinion  whether  public  or  private : 
that  she  had  outgrown  criticism. 

True,  Quard  might  divorce  her.  But  what  of  that  ?  If 
he  did,  Joan  Thursday  would  n't  suffer.  If  he  did  n't, 
he  himself  would  be  the  last  to  pretend  he  was  leading 
a  life  of  celibacy  because  of  her  defection. 

Marbridge  she  really  liked ;  his  appeal  to  her  nature  was 
stronger  than  that  of  any  man  she  had  as  yet  encountered. 
He  attracted  her  in  every  way,  and  he  excited  her 


346  JOAN    THURSDAY 

curiosity  as  well.  He  was  a  new  type  —  but  in  what 
respect  different  from  other  men?  He  was  famously 
successful  with  women:  why?  He  had  wealth,  cultiva- 
tion of  a  certain  sort  (real  or  spurious,  Joan  could  n't 
discriminate)  and  social  position;  and  this  flattered,  that 
such  an  one  should  reject  the  women  of  his  own  sphere 
for  Joan  Thursday  —  late  of  the  stocking  counter. 

And  if  she  could  turn  this  infatuation  of  his  to  material 
profit,  while  at  the  same  time  satisfying  the  several  appe- 
tites Marbridge  excited  in  her :  why  not  ?  Other  women 
by  the  score  did  as  much  without  censure  or  obvious  cause 
for  regret.  Why  not  she  ? 

How  many  women  of  her  acquaintance  —  women  whose 
interests,  running  in  grooves  parallel  to  hers,  were  in- 
telligible to  Joan  —  would  have  refused  the  chance  that 
was  now  hers  through  Marbridge?  Not  one;  none,  at 
least,  who  was  free  as  Joan  was  free;  not  even  Hattie 
Morrison,  whose  views  upon  the  subject  of  such  arrange- 
ments were  strong,  whom  Joan  considered  straitlaced  to 
the  verge  of  absurdity.  Hattie,  Joan  believed,  would  have 
jumped  at  the  opportunity. 

But  of  course,  denied,  Hattie  would  be  sure  to  decry 
it,  and  with  the  more  bitterness  since  Joan  had  won  it 
in  the  wreck  of  Hattie's  hopes. 

And  here  was  the  only  shadow  upon  the  fair  prospect 
of  Joan's  contentment.  She  who  had  questioned  Hattie's 
right  to  become  a  party  to  the  conspiracy  against  Mrs. 
Cardrow  —  how  could  she  ever  go  home  and  face  the  girl, 
with  this  treachery  on  her  conscience  ? 

True :  Hattie  did  n't  know,  would  n't  know  before 
morning,  might  never  learn  the  truth  during  the  term  of 
their  association. 

None  the  less,  to  be  with  Hattie  that  night  would  be  to 
sit  with  a  skeleton  at  the  feast  of  her  felicity.  .  .  . 

On  impulse  Joan  turned  to  the  left  on  leaving  the  New 
York  Theatre  building,  and  moved  slowly,  purposelessly, 
down  Broadway. 


JOAN    THURSDAY  347 

It  was  an  afternoon  of  withering  heat:  the  pavements 
burning  palpably  through  the  paper-thin  soles  of  her  pretty 
slippers,  and  the  air  close  with  the  smell  of  hot  asphaltum. 
The  rays  of  the  westering  sun  made  nothing  of  the  fabric 
of  Joan's  white  parasol,  their  heat  penetrating  its  sheer 
shield  as  though  it  were  glass.  Mankind  in  general  sought 
the  shadowed  side  of  the  street  and  moved  only  reluctantly, 
with  its  coat  over  its  arm,  a  handkerchief  tucked  in  be- 
tween neck  and  collar  —  effectually  choking  off  ventila- 
tion and  threatening  "  sun-stroke." 

Waiting  upon  the  northeast  corner  of  Forty-second 
Street  for  the  traffic  police  to  check  the  cross-town  tide, 
Joan  felt  half-suffocated  and  thought  longingly  of  the 
seashore.  .  .  . 

Once  across  the  street,  she  turned  directly  in  beneath 
the  permanent  awning  of  the  Knickerbocker  Hiotel,  and 
entered  the  lobby,  making  her  way  round,  past  the  en- 
trance to  the  bar,  to  the  recess  dedicated  to  the  public 
telephone  booths. 

A  semi-exhausted  and  apathetic  operator  looked  up  re- 
luctantly as  Joan  approached,  with  one  glance  appraising 
her  from  head  to  heels.  At  any  other  time  the  dainty 
perfection  of  Joan's  toilet  would  have  roused  antagonism 
in  the  woman ;  today  she  found  energy  only  sufficient  for  a 
perfunctory  mumble. 

"  What  numba,  please  ?  " 

Joan  hesitated,  feeling  herself  suddenly  upon  the  verge 
of  dangerous  indiscretion,  but  stung  by  the  operator's 
look  of  jaded  disdain,  took  her  courage  in  hand  and 
pursued  her  original  intention. 

"  One  Bryant,"  she  said. 

The  operator  jammed  a  plug  into  one  of  the  rows 
of  sockets  before  her  and  iterated  the  number  mechan- 
ically. 

In  another  moment  she  nodded,  indicating  the  rank 
of  booths. 

"  Numba  five  —  One  Bryant,"  she  said. 


348  JOAN    THURSDAY 

Joan  shut  herself  in  with  the  sliding  door  and  took  up 
the  receiver. 

"  Hello  — Lambs'  Club?  "  she  enquired.  ..."  Is  Mr. 
Fowey  in  the  club?  .  .  .  Will  you  page  him,  please. 
.  .  .  Miss  Thursday.  .  .  .  Yes,  I  '11  hold  the  wire." 

The  booth  was  hermetically  sealed.  Perspiration  was 
starting  out  all  over  her  body.  And  somewhere  in  that 
airless  box,  probably  at  her  feet,  lurked  a  long  unburied 
cigar.  She  thrust  the  door  ajar,  but  only  to  close  it  im- 
mediately as  Fowey's  voice  saluted  her. 

"Hello?" 

"  Hello,  Hubert,"  Joan  drawled,  with  a  little  touch  of 
laughing  mockery  in  her  accents. 

"  Is  that  you,  Joan  —  really  ?  "  the  voice  demanded 
excitedly. 

"  Real-ly !  "  she  affirmed.  "  What  're  you  doing  there, 
shut  up  all  alone  by  yourself  in  that  stupid  club,  Hubert  ? " 

Prefaced  by  a  brief  but  intelligible  pause,  the  man's 
response  came  briskly :  "  Where  are  you  now,  anyway  ?  " 

"  That  does  n't  matter,"  she  retorted.  She  had  meant 
to  ask  him  to  meet  her  at  the  hotel,  but  reconsidered, 
fearing  lest  Marbridge  might  chance  to  see  them.  "  What 
really  matters  is  that  this  is  my  birthday  and  I  'm  going 
to  give  a  party.  Have  you  got  anything  better  to  do  ?  " 

"No  —  "  " 

"  Then  meet  me  in  half  an  hour  on  the  southbound 
platform  of  the  Sixth  Avenue  L  at  Battery  Place." 

"  Battery  Place !    What  in  thunder  —  " 

"  Never  mind  —  tell  you  all  about  it  when  we  meet. 
Will  you  come  ?  " 

"Will  I!    Well,  rawther!" 

"Half  an  hour,  then  —  " 

•••'  I  '11  be  there,  with  bells  on !  " 

"  Then  good-bye  for  a  little  —  Hubert." 

"  Good-bye." 

Fowey  reached  the  point  of  assignation  only  one  train 
later  than  Joan. 


JOAN    THURSDAY  349 

As  he  hurried  down  the  platform,  almost  stumbling  in 
his  impatience  to  join  her,  the  girl  surveyed  with  sudden 
dislike  and  regret  his  slight,  dandified  figure  fitted  with 
finical  precision  into  clothing  so  ultra-English  in  fashion 
that  it  might  have  belonged  to  his  younger  brother.  And 
the  confident  smile  that  lighted  up  his  pinched,  eager  coun- 
tenance seemed  little  short  of  offensive.  She  was  sorry 
now  that  she  had  yielded  to  the  temptation  to  make  use 
of  him:  he  was  so  insignificant  in  every  way,  so  violently 
the  opposite  in  all  things  of  the  man  who  now  filled  all 
her  thoughts  —  Marbridge ;  and  so  transparent  that  even 
she  could  read  his  mind:  he  entertained  not  the  least 
tangible  doubt  that  now,  after  the  manner  in  which  they 
had  last  parted,  she  had  at  length  wakened  to  appreciation 
of  his  irresistible  charms,  that  her  requesting  him  to  meet 
her  was  but  the  preface  to  surrender. 

But  she  permitted  nothing  of  her  thoughts  to  become 
legible  in  her  manner.  After  all,  she  had  only  wanted  an 
escort  for  the  evening,  an  excuse  to  postpone  that  unavoid- 
able return  to  the  company  of  the  girl  she  had  betrayed; 
and  Fowey  had  seemed  the  most  convenient  and  the  least 
dangerous  man  she  could  think  of.  If  in  the  inflation  of 
his  insufferable  conceit  he  dreamed  for  an  instant  another 
thing  .  .  .  Well,  Joan  promised  herself,  he  'd  soon  find 
out  his  mistake!  .  .  . 

Keeping  up  the  fiction  of  her  imaginary  birthday,  she 
outlined  her  plans:  they  would  take  one  of  the  Iron 
Steamboat  Company's  boats  from  Pier  1,  North  River  — 
a  short  walk  from  the  station  —  to  Coney  Island.  When 
that  resort  palled,  they  would  drive  to  Manhattan  Beach 
and  dine,  perhaps  "  take  in "  Pain's  Fireworks ;  and 
return  to  New  York  by  the  same  route. 

Fowey's  objections  were  instant  and  sincere  and  well- 
grounded:  the  boats  would  be  crowded  beyond  endurance 
with  an  unwashed  rabble  liberally  sown  with  drunks  and 
screaming  children.  If  she  would  only  let  him,  he  'd  get 
a  taxicab  —  or  even  a  touring-car. 


350  JOAN    THURSDAY 

Quietly  but  firmly  Joan  overruled  him.  It  must  be 
her  party  or  no  party,  as  she  proposed  or  not  at  all. 

He  yielded  in  the  end,  but  the  event  proved  him  right 
in  all  he  had  foretold.  Joan  was  very  soon  made  sorry 
she  had  n't  suffered  herself  to  be  gainsaid. 

They  had  half  an  hour  to  wait  for  the  boat,  and  the 
waiting-room  upon  the  second-storey  of  the  pier  was  like 
an  oven,  packed  with  a  milling,  sweating  mob  exactly  ful- 
filling Fowey's  prediction.  They  were  elbowed,  shoul- 
dered, walked  upon,  and  at  one  time  openly  ridiculed  by 
a  gang  of  hooligans,  any  one  of  whom  would  have  made 
short  work  of  Fowey  had  he  dared  show  any  resentment. 

Upon  the  boat,  when  at  length  it  turned  up  tardily  to 
receive  them,  conditions  were  little  better,  save  that  the 
open  air  was  an  indescribable  relief  after  the  reeking 
atmosphere  of  the  pier.  Fowey  managed  to  secure  two 
uncomfortable  folding  stools,  upon  which  they  perched, 
crowded  against  the  rail  of  the  upper  deck;  a  wretched 
"  orchestra  "  wrung  infamous  parodies  of  popular  songs 
from  several  tortured  instruments;  children  scuffled  and 
howled ;  burly  ruffians  in  unclean  aprons  thrust  themselves 
bodily  through  the  throng,  balancing  dripping  trays  laden 
with  glasses  of  lukewarm  beer  and  "  soft  drinks  "  and 
bawling  in  every  ear  their  seductive  refrain  —  "  Here  'a 
the  waiter !  Want  the  waiter  ?  Who  wants  the  waiter  ?  " 
—  and  an  alcoholic,  planting  his  chair  next  to  Joan's, 
promptly  went  to  sleep,  snoring  atrociously,  and  threatened 
every  instant  to  topple  over  and  rest  his  head  in  her  lap. 

A  single  circumstance  modified  in  a  way  Joan's  regret 
that  she  had  n't  heeded  Fowey's  protests. 

As  the  boat  swung  away  from  the  pier,  a  larger  steam- 
ship of  one  of  the  coastwise  lines,  outward  bound  from 
its  dock  farther  up  the  North  River,  passed  with  leeway 
so  scant  that  the  dress  and  features  of  those  upon  its 
decks  were  clearly  to  be  discerned.  And  at  the  moment 
when  the  two  vessels  were  nearest,  Joan  discovered  one 
who  stood  just  outside  an  open  cabin  door,  leaning  upon 


JOAN    THURSDAY  351 

the  rail  with  an  impressively  nonchalant  pose,  and  smok- 
ing a  heavy  cigar.  He  wore  clothing  of  a  conspicuous 
shepherd's-plaid,  and  his  pose  was  an  arrested  dramatic 
gesture. 

In  a  moment  a  woman  emerged  from  the  open  door 
behind  him  and  joined  him  at  the  rail,  placing  an  intimate 
hand  on  his  forearm  and  saying  something  which  won 
from  him  a  laugh  and  a  look  of  tender  admiration:  a 
handsome,  able-bodied  woman,  expensively  but  loudly 
dressed,  her  connection  with  the  stage  as  unquestionable 
as  was  his. 

Joan  dissembled  the  odd  emotion  with  which  she  recog- 
nized the  man,  and  turned  to  Fowey. 

"  What  boat  is  that,  do  you  know,  Hubert  ? " 

Fowey  raked  her  with  an  indifferent  glance,  fore  and 
aft.  "  Belongs  to  the  New  Bedford  Line,"  he  announced 
—  "  can't  make  out  her  name  —  connects  at  ISTew  Bedford 
for  the  boats  to  Martha's  Vineyard  and  Nantucket.  Ever 
been  up  that  way  ?  " 

"No.    What 'sit  like?" 

"  Pretty  islands.  Don't  know  Martha's  Vineyard  very 
well,  but  Nantucket  's  my  old  stamping-ground.  Go  up 
there  in  the  middle  of  the  summer  —  about  now  —  and 
you  '11  find  every  actor  and  actress  you  ever  heard  of,  and 
then  some.  Great  place.  Wish  we  were  going  there." 

"  Don't  be  silly."  .  .  . 

The  boats  were  drawing  apart.  Joan  looked  back  for 
the  last  sight  she  was  ever  to  have  of  her  husband. 

Though  she  could  n't  have  known  this,  she  sighed  a 
little,  in  strange  depression. 

Perplexed,  she  tried  vainly  to  analyze  her  emotion :  was 
it  regret  —  or  jealousy  ? 

Of  a  sudden,  in  the  heart  of  that  immense  crowd,  with 
Fowey  attentive  at  her  elbow,  she  was  conscious  of  a 
feeling  of  intense  loneliness. 


XXXV 

WHEN,  after  a  long  and  tedious  voyage  over  a  sea  as 
flat  as  a  plate  and  unflawed  by  a  single  cooling  drift  of 
air,  the  steamboat  was  made  fast  to  the  end  of  that  long 
iron  pier  which  juts  out  from  the  flat,  low  coast  of  Coney 
Island,  its  passengers  rose  en  masse  and  crowded  toward 
the  gangways.  Joan  and  Fowey,  attempting  to  hang  back 
until  the  crowd  had  thinned  out  sufficiently  to  enable  them 
to  go  ashore  in  comfort,  were  caught  in  the  swirl  of  it 
and  swept  along  willy-nilly. 

Once  on  the  pier-head  the  multitude  had  more  elbow 
room  and  spread  out,  the  main  body  streaming  headlong 
shorewards,  keen-set  for  the  delights  promised  by  the  two 
great  amusement  parks  which  had  grown  up  in  the  heart 
of  that  frontier  settlement  of  gin-mills,  dance-halls,  side- 
shows, eating-houses,  and  dives  unspeakable. 

Joan  and  Fowey  followed  more  at  their  leisure,  con- 
straint and  silence  between  them  like  a  wall.  The  girl 
was  deeply  disappointed  with  the  expedition,  as  far  as  it 
had  gone,  doubting  whether  anything  better  would  follow, 
and  still  labouring  under  that  unaccountable  depression 
which  had  settled  down  upon  her  spirits  at  sight  of 
Quard  on  the  New  Bedford  boat.  Fowey,  no  less  dis- 
gusted, was  puzzled  by  his  companion's  attitude,  at  once 
tolerant  and  aloof,  keenly  watchful  for  an  opening  through 
which  to  pursue  his  conquest,  and  wondering  how  it  would 
end.  If  she  were  simply  bent  on  tantalizing  him  again, 
for  her  own  amusement  .  .  . 

He  swore  angrily  but  inaudibly. 

Near  the  shore  end  of  the  pier  they  delayed  to  watch 
the  antics  of  the  hundreds  of  bathers  churning  the  shallows 


JOAN    THURSDAY  353 

in  front  of  huge  and  hideous  bathing  establishments.  In 
countless  numbers,  they  dotted  the  sea  like  flies  and  dark- 
ened the  sun-baked,  unclean  sands,  into  which  their  feet 
had  trodden  the  wreckage  of  ten  thousand  lunches. 

Fowey  said  something  inexpensively  cynical  about  the 
resemblance  of  the  scene  below  to  a  congregation  of 
bacilli  crawling  upon  a  slide  beneath  a  microscope. 

Joan  heard  without  response,  either  vocal  or  mental. 
She  resented  bitterly  the  superior  attitude  adopted  by 
her  companion.  For  her  part,  she  would  have  asked 
nothing  better  than  to  mingle  with  the  throng  and  taste 
those  crude  pleasures  so  dear  to  its  simple  heart  and, 
had  she  but  dared  admit  it,  to  her  own.  But  she  had 
Fowey  to  live  up  to. 

Very  heartily  she  regretted  the  impulse  which  had  dic- 
tated her  invitation.  She  had  been  far  happier  alone  — 
though  it  would  have  been  strange  had  she  been  suffered 
to  remain  long  alone. 

By  the  time  they  left  the  pier,  the  evening  was  so  far 
advanced  that  the  myriad  lights  of  the  tawdry  town  were 
flashing  into  being.  They  debouched  into  a  roaring  mob 
which  filled  the  wide  avenue  from  curb  to  curb,  packed  so 
densely,  though  in  constant  motion,  that  trolley  cars  and 
automobiles  forced  a  way  through  it  only  at  a  snail's  pace 
and  with  great  difficulty.  Encouraged  by  the  excessive 
heat  which  rendered  Town  intolerable  to  all  who  had 
the  means  to  escape  it,  the  week-end  swarming  had  begun 
in  all  sincerity.  In  spite  of  the  terrific  congestion  which 
already  obtained  in  all  the  streets  and  avenues  and  beaches, 
piers,  amusement  parks,  catch-penny  shows,  saloons,  and 
restaurants,  scarcely  a  minute  passed  without  the  arrival 
at  some  one  of  the  trolley  terminals  of  a  car  packed  to 
the  guards  with  more  visitors. 

A  good-natured  if  rowdy  mob,  for  the  most  part,  with 
only  a  minimum  element  of  the  downright  vicious  in  its 
composition,  it  was  none  the  less  bent  on  amusement  in 
its  cheapest  form,  that  is  to  say,  at  somebody  else's  ex- 


354  JOAN    THURSDAY 

pense.  It  gathered  thickest  round  the  places  of  free  enter- 
tainment, where  acrobats  performed  on  open-air  stages  or 
crawled  upon  high,  invisible  wires,  or  where  slides  were 
supplied  gratis  for  public  diversion:  grinning  always,  but 
howling  with  delight  when  treated  to  real  misadventure, 
as  when  some  girl,  negotiating  a  bamboo  slide  upon  a 
grass  mat,  her  skirts  wrapped  tight  about  her,  would  lose 
balance  and  shoot  headlong,  sprawling,  to  the  level;  the 
greater  the  exposure,  the  greater  the  diversion.  .  .  . 

Nor  was  Fowey  permitted  to  escape  unteased:  his 
conspicuous  clothing,  and  the  broad  black  ribbons  dang- 
ling from  his  horn-rimmed  glasses  were  too  tempting  to 
be  resisted.  Once  his  Panama  was  smashed  down  over 
his  eyes ;  and  his  glasses  were  so  frequently  jerked  by  their 
moorings  from  his  nose  that  he  was  fain  at  length  to 
pocket  them  and  poke  owlishly  along  at  Joan's  guidance. 

Dazzled  to  blindness  by  those  ten  million  glaring  bulbs 
which  lifted  up  tier  upon  tier  against  the  blank  purple 
skies;  deafened  by  an  indescribable  cacophony  of  bands, 
organs,  bells,  horns,  human  tongues  incessantly  clatter- 
ing; suffering  acutely  from  the  collective  heat  of  the 
multitude  added  to  that  of  the  still  and  muggy  night; 
buffeted  and  borne  hither  and  yon  at  the  will  of  the  mass : 
they  contrived  in  the  end  to  engage  an  open,  horse-drawn 
vehicle,  of  the  type  colloquially  known  in  those  days  as 
"  low-neck  hack,"  and  ordered  themselves  driven  to  the 
Manhattan  Beach  Hotel. 

When  presently  they  had  gained  the  darkling  peace  of 
a  long  road  between  marsh-lands,  Fowey  resumed  with  his 
glasses  his  hateful  cynicism. 

"  That  was  considerable  treat,  all  right,"  he  said 
pensively. 

"  Glad  you  liked  it,"  Joan  replied  with  the  curtness  of 
chagrin. 

"  We  '11  go  back  and  have  some  more  after  dinner," 
he  suggested. 

"  Thanks  —  I  Ve  had  plenty." 


JOAN    THURSDAY  355 

"  No,  but  really !  "  he  insisted.  "  We  have  n't  seen  half 
of  it  —  " 

"Oh,  shut  up!" 

Her  anger  was  real ;  and  when  he  would  have  mollified 
the  girl  with  soft  words  and  an  arm  that  sought  to  steal 
round  her  waist,  she  repeated  her  injunction  with  added 
coarseness  and  struck  his  hand  away  with  a  force  that  he 
felt. 

In  spite  of  this,  he  schooled  himself  to  patience. 

Dinner,  served  perfunctorily  by  a  weary  waiter  and 
consumed  upon  the  verandah  of  the  hotel  at  a  table,  the 
best  they  could  command,  far  removed  from  the  compara- 
tive coolness  and  ease  of  those  beside  the  railing,  did  little 
if  anything  to  modify  Joan's  temper. 

She,  who  had  set  out,  believing  herself  the  happiest  of 
mortals,  to  spend  an  evening  of  real  enjoyment,  felt  utterly 
wretched  and  forlorn. 

Moment  by  moment  her  distaste  for  Fowey  was  gaining 
strength.  She  was  put  to  it  to  listen  to  his  bragging 
and  to  make  response  civilly.  She  did  not  relish  her  food, 
her  company,  or  her  surroundings;  and  in  utter  ennui 
tried  to  stimulate  herself  with  her  favourite  brand  of  sweet 
champagne,  insisting  on  another  bottle  when  they  had 
emptied  one  between  them.  It  served  only  to  stimulate  a 
fictitious  gaiety  in  her,  one  swift  to  wane. 

For  all  this,  she  was  reluctant  to  contemplate  going 
home.  Anything  were  preferable  to  that  —  at  least  until 
she  could  feel  reasonably  sure  of  finding  Hattie  abed  and 
asleep. 

They  finished  their  meal  at  an  hour  too  late  to  make  it 
worth  while  to  patronize  one  of  the  open-air  entertain- 
ments with  which  she  had  promised  herself  diversion; 
and  since  she  would  neither  go  home  nor,  at  Fowey's 
mischievous  suggestion,  return  to  Coney  Island,  they  moved 
to  another  table,  nearer  the  railing,  and  whiled  away  one 
more  hour  listening  to  the  band  music  over  their  cigar- 
ettes and  liqueurs. 


356  JOAN    THURSDAY 

Toward  eleven  o'clock,  Joan  suddenly  announced  that 
she  was  sick  of  it  all  and  ready  to  go.  Fowey  re- 
vived his  preference  for  a  motor-car,  and  got  his  way 
against  scanty  opposition.  In  a  saner  humour,  Joan 
would  have  stuck  to  her  original  plan.  As  it  was,  she 
accepted  the  motor  ride  with  neither  gratitude  nor 
graciousness. 

Curiously  enough,  once  established  in  the  car,  her  hat 
off,  the  swift  rush  of  night  air  cooling  her  moist  brows, 
her  head  resting  back  against  the  cushions,  she  permitted 
Fowey  to  repeat  his  ardent  love-making  which  had  made 
their  previous  ride  together  memorable.  Her  dislike  of 
him  was  no  less  thorough-paced,  but  had  passed  from  an 
active  to  a  passive  stage;  she  was  at  once  too  indifferent 
to  resist  him  and  so  bored  that  she  welcomed  anything 
that  promised  excitement.  She  suffered  his  kisses,  con- 
fident in  her  power  to  control  him,  and  drew  a  certain 
satisfaction  from  reminding  him,  now  and  again  forcibly, 
that  there  were  limits  to  her  toleration.  But  for  the  most 
part  she  lay  in  his  arms  in  passive  languor,  her  eyes 
half  closed,  and  tried  to  forget  him,  or  rather  to  believe 
him  someone  else,  one  whose  embraces  she  could  have 
welcomed  .  .  . 

When  they  came  to  lighted  streets,  she  bade  Fowey 
"  behave,"  and  would  not  permit  him  even  so  slight  a 
lapse  from  decorum  as  that  of  "  holding  hands." 

She  sat  up,  rearranging  the  disorder  of  her  hair,  ad- 
justed her  hat,  surreptitiously  restored  the  brilliance  of 
her  lips  with  a  stick  of  rouge. 

The  man  drew  back  sullenly  into  his  corner, 
fuming.  .  .  . 

At  her  door,  dismissing  the  car,  he  followed  her  up  to 
the  stoop. 

"  Joan  —  "he  began  angrily. 

She  turned  back  from  using  her  latch-key,  with  a  won- 
dering, child-like  stare. 

"  Yes,  Hubert  ?  "  she  enquired  with  hidden  malice. 


JOAN    THURSDAY  357 

"  You  're  not  —  you  're  not  going  to  send  me  off  like 
this  ?  " 

"  Why  not  ?  "  she  demanded  with  fine  assumption  of 
simplicity.  "  It 's  awful'  late." 

Fowey  seized  her  wrist. 

"  Now,  listen  to  me !  " 

Joan  broke  his  grasp  with  little  or  no  effort. 

"  Silly  boy !  "  she  said.  "  Do  you  really  want  to  come 
in  and  visit  a  while  before  you  say  good  night  ?  " 

Her  look  was  false  with  a  winning  softness.  Fowey 
stammered. 

"  You  —  you  know  —  " 

"  Then  come  along !  "  she  said,  with  a  laugh ;  and  turn- 
ing fled  lightly  before  him  up  the  darkened  stairway. 

She  had  opened  the  door  to  the  tiny  private  hallway 
of  the  flat  when  he  overtook  her,  panting.  She  paused, 
with  a  warning  finger  to  her  lips. 

"  S-sh !  "  she  warned.    "  Don't  wake  Hattie !  " 

He  swore  viciously,  discountenanced;  and  she  laughed 
and,  leaving  the  door  wide,  went  on  into  the  small  sitting- 
dining-room,  meanly  exulting  in  the  discomfiture  she  had 
planned,  knowing  quite  well  that  he  had  either  forgotten 
Hattie  or  believed  her  to  be  spending  this  week-end  out  of 
Town,  as  before. 

In  the  act  of  lighting  the  gas,  she  heard  the  door 
close  and  saw  Fowey  come,  white  and  shaken,  into  the 
room. 

"  Hush !  "  she  said  gaily.  "  I  '11  make  sure  she  is  n't 
awake  —  " 

Removing  her  hat,  she  passed  on  into  the  adjoining 
bedroom,  and  stopped  short  with  a  sensation  of  sinking 
dismay.  The  room  was  empty,  the  bed  she  shared  with 
Hattie  untouched.  So  much  was  visible  in  the  faint  light 
entering  through  windows  that  opened  on  a  well. 

Wondering,  Joan  struck  a  light.  Its  first  glimmer  re- 
vealed to  her  the  fact  that  Hattie's  trunk  was  gone.  The 
flare  of  the  gas-jet  disclosed  greater  changes  in  the  aspect 


358  JOAN    THURSDAY 

of  the  room,  due  to  the  disappearance  of  Hattie's  toilet 
articles  and  knick-knacks. 

Hattie  had  left,  bag  and  baggage  —  had  gone  for  good ! 

But  why? 

Had  she  discovered  Joan's  treachery?  Or  what  had 
happened  ? 

And  in  her  surprise  and  perplexity,  the  girl  was  con- 
scious anew  of  that  sense  of  loneliness.  She  had  been 
afraid  to  return  to  the  one  whom  she  had  betrayed  so 
lightly ;  but  now  she  was  afraid  to  be  without  her. 

Going  back  to  the  adjoining  room,  she  found  Fowey 
standing  beside  the  table  and  with  a  slight  smile  examining 
a  sheet  of  paper. 

"  I  found  this  lying  here,"  he  announced,  handing  it 
over  —  "  did  n't  realize  it  was  anything  until  I  'd  read 
half  of  it" 

His  smile  was  again  confident,  bright  with  premature 
pride  of  conquest.  But  Joan  didn't  heed  it.  She  was 
reading  rapidly  what  had  been  written,  swiftly  and  in  a 
sprawling  hand,  upon  the  half  sheet  of  note-paper. 

"  By  rights  I  ought  to  stay  until  you  come  back,  whenever  you 
have  the  cheek  to,  and  tell  you  what  I  think  of  you  —  I  saw  B.  E. 
this  evening  and  he  told  me  all  about  it  —  but  I  want  never  to  see 
you  again  —  the  rent 's  paid  up  till  next  Wednesday  —  then  you 
can  stick  or  get  out  —  I  don't  care  which  —  and  I  wish  you  joy  of 
your  bargain !  —  H.  M." 

"  You  Ve  been  scrapping  with  Hattie,  eh  ?  "  Joan  heard 
Fowey  say  in  an  amused  voice. 

Without  answering,  she  let  the  sheet  of  paper  fall  to 
the  table,  and  stood  with  head  bowed  in  thought,  suffering 
acutely  the  humiliation  inspired  by  Hattie's  contemptuous 
dismissal. 

"  What  was  the  trouble  ?  "  Fowey  pursued.  "  Not  that 
I  'm  sorry  —  " 

"  Oh,  nothing  much,"  Joan  interrupted.  "  We  just  had 
a  difference  of  opinion,  and  she  had  to  fly  off  the  handle 
like  this.  It  does  n't  matter." 


JOAN    THURSDAY  359 

"  It  matters  to  me,"  Fowey  announced  significantly. 

]STow  Joan  looked  up,  for  the  first  time  appreciating 
her  position. 

"  Oh  .  .  ."  she  said  blankly. 

Fowey  was  advancing,  with  extended  arms.  She  raised 
a  hand  to  fend  him  off. 

"  Don't !  "  she  begged.  "  Please  don't.  I  can't  .  .  . 
You  must  go,  now  —  of  course.  I  'm  sorry.  Good 
night." 

He  paused,  and  she  saw  his  face  pale  and  working  with 
passion ;  his  small  eyes  blazing  behind  their  thick  lenses ; 
his  hands  clenched  by  his  sides,  but  not  tightly,  the  fingers 
twitching  nervously ;  his  whole  body  trembling  and  shaken 
beyond  control. 

She  was  conscious  of  an  incongruous,  unnatural,  in- 
explicable feeling  of  pity  for  him. 

"  Please  be  a  good  boy,"  she  pleaded,  "  and  go  away." 

"  No,  I  'm  damned  if  I  do.  You  asked  me  up  here  — 
I  know  now  —  just  to  tease  me.  But  that 's  no  good.  I 
won't  go ! "  He  advanced  another  pace,  his  tone  and 
manner  changing.  "  O  Joan,  Joan !  "  he  begged  — 
"  don't  treat  me  so  cruelly !  You  know  I  'm  mad  about 
you.  Does  n't  that  mean  anything  to  you,  more  than  a 
chance  to  torment  me  ?  My  God !  what  kind  of  a  woman 
are  you?  I  can't  stand  this.  Flesh  and  blood  couldn't. 
I  'm  only  human.  All  this  week  I  've  kept  away  from  you 
simply  because  I  realized  what  you  were  —  " 

"  What  am  I  ? "  Joan  cut  in  quickly. 

Fowey  choked  again,  with  a  gesture  of  impotent 
exasperation. 

"  You,"  he  almost  shouted  —  "  you  're  the  woman  I 
love  and  who 's  driving  me  mad  —  mad  I  tell  you !  " 

"  Hubert !     You  mean  that  ?     You  really  love  me  ?  " 

"  You  know  I  do.  You  know  I  'm  crazy  about  you. 
Have  n't  you  seen  it  from  the  first  ?  " 

Hesitating,  Joan  experienced  a  sense  of  one  in  deep 
waters.  There  was  a  sound  as  that  of  distant  surf  in 


360  JOAN    THURSDAY 

her  ears.  All  through  her  body  pulses  were  throbbing 
madly. 

She  struggled  still  a  little,  instinctively;  but  Fowey 
advantaged  himself  of  that  instant  of  indecision.  He  held 
her  in  his  arms,  now;  her  face  was  stinging  beneath 
his  kisses. 

Almost  unconsciously,  she  lifted  her  arms  and  clasped 
them  round  his  neck,  drawing  his  face  to  hers. 

"  You  poor  kid !  "  she  murmured  fondly,  her  eyes 
closed  ..."  You  poor  kid  .  .  ." 


XXXVI 

WITHOUT  knowing  how  she  had  come  there,  Joan  found 
herself  standing  beside  the  outer  doorway,  in  the  narrow 
hall;  one  hand  hugging  about  her  the  kimono  she  must 
have  snatched  up  by  instinct,  while  yet  not  fully  wakened, 
the  other  hand  fumbling  with  the  lock;  sleep  clouding 
her  brain  like  a  fog,  fatigue  weighting  her  eyelids  and 
chaining  her  limbs,  panic  hammering  in  her  bosom. 

Overhead  the  doorbell  was  ringing  imperatively,  without 
interruption,  even  as  it  must  have  been  ringing  for  many 
minutes  before  she  was  consciously  awake. 

Dimly  she  felt  that  this  alarm  by  night  must  portend 
something  strange  and  terrible. 

And  still  she  held  her  hand,  wondering.  Who  could 
it  be  ?  Not  Quard :  for  she  had  seen  him  leave  New 
York.  Never  Marbridge :  that  were  unthinkable !  Hattie 
Morrison,  perhaps  .  .  .  And  that  meant  .  .  . 

The  bell  ground  on  implacably. 

At  length  she  found  courage  to  adjust  the  chain-bolt 
and  open  the  door  to  the  limit  permitted  by  that  guard. 

In  the  outer  hallway  a  gas-jet  burned,  turned  low,  dif- 
fusing just  enough  illumination  to  show  her  the  figure, 
somehow  indefinitely  familiar  in  spite  of  its  style,  of  a 
man  in  a  chauffeur's  uniform:  a  young  and  wiry  man 
clothed  in  khaki  coat  and  breeches  and  leather  leggins, 
and  wearing  a  cap  with  visor  shadowing  heavily  his 
narrow,  sharp-featured  countenance. 

As  the  door  opened  he  removed  his  finger  from  the 
bell-push,  and  drove  home  recognition  with  his  voice. 

"  Miss  Thursby  live  here  ?    I  got  a  message  for  her." 

Joan  gasped :   "  Butch !  " 


362  JOAN    THURSDAY 

"  It 's  me,  all  right,"  her  brother  admitted  crisply  in 
his  well-remembered  tone  of  irony.  "  You  certainly  are 
one  sincere  little  sleeper.  I  been  ringing  here  —  " 

"  How  did  you  get  in  ?  " 

"Rang  up  the  janitor  —  if  that  matters.  Lis'n:  you 
betta  hustle  into  your  clothes  quick  's  you  can  if  you  wanta 
get  home  in  time  to  say  good-bye  to  the  old  woman." 

"Mother!"  Joan  shrilled.  "What  — what's  the 
matter  —  ?" 

"  Dyin',"  Butch  told  her  briefly  and  without  emotion. 
"  She  said  she  wanted  to  see  you.  So  get  a  move  on.  My 
car 's  waitin',  and  I  dassent  leave  it  alone.  Hustle  — 
y'  understand  ?  " 

"  Yes,  yes !  "  Joan  promised  with  a  sob.  "  I  '11  hurry, 
Butch  —  " 

"See  you  do,  then!" 

The  boy  swung  about  smartly  and  disappeared  down 
the  well  of  the  stairway. 

Joan  closed  the  door,  and  leaned  against  it,  panting. 
Suppose  he  had  wanted  to  come  in !  ... 

For  the  moment,  this  was  her  sole  coherent  thought. 

Then,  rousing,  she  crept  stealthily  back  to  the  dark- 
ened bedroom,  gathered  up  her  clothing  with  infinite 
precautions  against  noise,  and  returned  to  the  sitting- 
room  to  dress  in  feverish  haste.  .  .  . 

There  was  an  open  taxicab  waiting  in  front  of  the 
door.  As  she  came  out,  Butch  bent  over  and  cranked  the 
motor.  Straightening  up,  he  waved  her  curtly  into  the 
body  of  the  car. 

"  Jump  in  and  shut  the  door,"  he  ordered  briefly,  climb- 
ing into  the  driver's  seat. 

"But  — Butch  — " 

"  Doncha  hear  me  ?  Get  in  and  shut  that  door.  We 
got  no  time  to  waste  chinnin'  here." 

Abashed  and  frightened,  the  girl  obeyed. 

Immediately  Butch  had  the  cab  in  motion,  tearing  east- 
ward at  lawless  speed  through  streets  whose  long  ranks 


JOAN    THURSDAY  363 

of  yawning  windows,  seen  fugitivelj  in  the  formless  dusk 
of  early  morning,  seemed  to  look  down  leering,  as  if  in- 
formed w7ith  terrible  intelligence. 

She  shut  out  the  sight  of  them  with  hands  that  covered 
her  face  until  the  swift  rush  of  cool  air  steadied  and 
sobered  her,  so  that  she  grew  calmer  in  the  knowledge  that, 
in  veritable  fact  (and  this  was  all  that  really  mattered) 
"  nobody  knew."  .  .  . 

Then,  sitting  up,  she  composed  herself,  and  with  deft 
fingers  completed  the  adjustment  of  her  garments.  By  the 
time  she  had  finished  her  toilet,  aided  by  a  small  mirror 
inset  between  the  forward  windows,  Butch  was  stopping 
the  cab  before  the  East  Seventy-sixth  Street  tenement. 

Bending  back,  he  unlatched  the  door  and  swung  it  open. 

"  You  go  on  up,"  he  ordered.  "  I  '11  be  around  before 
long  —  gotta  run  this  machine  back  to  the  garage." 

Joan  stepped  quickly  to  the  sidewalk,  and  shut  the 
door. 

"  All  right,"  she  responded,  and  added,  almost  timidly, 
avoiding  her  brother's  eyes :  "  Thank  you,  Butch." 

He  grunted  unintelligibly  and,  as  Joan  moved  up  the 
stoop,  threw  in  the  power  again  and  drew  swiftly  away 
down  the  street. 

For  an  instant  Joan  held  back  in  the  vestibule,  sickened 
to  recognize  anew  the  home  of  dirt  and  squalor  she  had 
fled,  a  long  lifetime  since,  it  seemed,  and  struggling  with 
almost  invincible  repugnance  for  the  ordeal  awaiting  her 
at  the  head  of  those  five  weary  flights. 

Then,  more  through  instinct  than  of  her  will,  her  finger 
pressed  the  call-button  beneath  the  Thursby  letter  box. 

The  latch  clicked.  She  pushed  the  door  open,  moved 
reluctantly  into  the  shadows  and  addressed  herself  wearily 
to  the  stairs,  inhaling  with  a  keen  physical  disgust  the 
heavy  and  malodorous  atmosphere  in  which  her  youth  had 
been  shaped  toward  womanhood. 

As  the  dining-room  door  admitted  her,  she  checked 
again,  almost  tempted  to  question  the  soundness  of  those 


364  JOAN    THURSDAY 

faculties  which  insisted  that  more  than  a  year  had  passed, 
rather  than  an  hour  or  two,  since  she  had  left  that  mean 
and  sordid  place. 

Above  the  dining-table  blazed  and  wheezed  a  single 
gas-jet,  whose  ragged  bluish  flame  was  yet  sufficiently 
strong  to  turn  to  the  colour  of  night  the  dull  dawnlight 
outside  the  airshaft  windows.  It  revealed  to  her  not  a 
single  article  of  furniture  other  than  as  memory  placed 
it,  and  showed  her,  seated  on  the  far  side  of  the  table, 
her  father  lifting  a  heavy  and  sullen  face  from  the  note- 
book between  his  soiled  fat  fingers,  that  inevitable  sheaf 
of  dope  lying  at  his  elbow. 

There  was  no  sort  of  greeting,  in  proper  sense,  between 
these  two.  For  a  little  neither  spoke.  Joan  hesitated, 
with  shoulders  against  the  panels  of  the  door,  in  an  atti- 
tude instinctively  defiant  and  defensive.  Thursby  looked 
her  up  and  down,  a  louring  sneer  marking  his  recogni- 
tion of  his  daughter's  finery. 

Suddenly,  explosively,  she  found  her  tongue :  "  How  's 
ma?" 

Thursby  jerked  a  thumb  in  the  direction  of  the 
bedrooms. 

"  She  died  an  hour  ago,"  he  said  slowly,  "  just  after 
Ed  went  to  find  you.  Edna  's  in  there." 

Joan  made  a  gesture  of  horror. 

"  My  God !  "  she  said  throatily,  and  turned  away. 

A  moment  later,  loud  cries  of  lamentation  ringing 
through  the  flat  testified  that  she  had  found  her  sister. 


xxxvn 

WITH  peculiar  irony,  the  passing  of  that  pallid,  vague, 
and  ineffectual  character,  Mrs.  Thursby,  proved  the  signal 
for  the  dissolution  of  the  family  which,  denying  her  both 
respect  and  affection  during  her  life,  had  none  the  less 
lost,  in  losing  her,  its  sole  motive  or  excuse  for  unity. 

The  return  from  the  cemetery  was  accomplished  toward 
noon  of  a  July  day  whose  heavily  overcast  sky  seemed 
only  to  act  as  a  blanket  over  the  city,  compressing  its 
heated  and  humid  atmosphere  until  the  least  exertion  was 
to  be  indulged  in  only  at  the  cost  of  saturated  clothing. 

The  four  were  crowded  in  common  misery  within  a 
shabby,  stuffy,  undertaker's  growler. 

Thursby  occupied  the  back  seat  with  his  eldest  daugh- 
ter, notwithstanding  the  fact  that,  since  apprising  her  of 
her  mother's  death,  the  morning  of  her  return,  he  had 
addressed  no  word  to  her  directly.  He  sat  now  with  fat 
and  mottled  hands  resting  on  his  knees,  his  waistcoat 
unbuttoned,  exposing  soiled  linen,  his  dull  and  heavy  gaze 
steadfastly  directed  through  the  window. 

Opposite  him,  on  the  forward  seat,  Edna  wept  silently 
and  incessantly  into  a  black-bordered  handkerchief. 

Butch,  beside  her,  looked  serious  and  depressed  in  a 
suit  of  black  clothing  borrowed  for  the  occasion. 

Nobody  spoke  from  the  time  they  re-entered  the  car- 
riage, after  the  burial,  until  they  left  it.  Joan  huddled 
herself  into  her  corner,  putting  all  possible  space  between 
herself  and  her  father.  A  sense  of  lassitude  was  heavy 
upon  her.  She  meditated  vaguely  on  the  strangeness 
of  life,  its  inscrutable  riddle,  the  enigma  of  its  brief  and 
feverish  transit  from  black  oblivion  through  light  to  black 


366  JOAN    THURSDAY 

oblivion.  But  the  problem  only  wearied  her.  She  dropped 
it  from  time  to  time  and  tried  to  think  of  other  things; 
as  a  rule  this  resulted  in  her  speculations  centering  about 
Butch. 

The  boy  mystified  her,  awed  her  a  little  with  a  sug- 
gestion of  spirit  and  strength,  character  and  intelligence, 
conveyed  by  a  forceful  yet  unassuming  manner.  It  was 
a  new  manner,  strangely  developed  in  the  year  that  spaced 
her  knowledge  of  him,  only  to  be  explained  by  his  sudden 
determination  to  go  seriously  to  work  and  make  some- 
thing of  himself;  and  the  motive  for  that  remained  in- 
explicable, and  would  ever  as  far  as  concerned  Joan.  For 
the  personal  reticence  that  had  always  sealed  his  cynical 
mouth  was  more  than  ever  characteristic  of  the  boy  to- 
day; and  the  sympathy  which  once  had  existed  between 
himself  and  Joan  was  become  a  thing  of  yesterday  and 
as  if  it  had  never  been.  His  attitude  toward  her  was 
touched  with  just  a  colour  of  contempt,  almost  too  faint 
to  be  resented;  she  shrank  from  it,  feeling  that  he  saw 
through  her  shallowness,  that  he  knew  her,  not  as  Mar- 
bridge  knew  her,  perhaps,  or  as  Billy  Salute,  but  thor- 
oughly and  intimately,  and  far  better  than  she  would  ever 
know  herself. 

She  knew  now  —  through  Edna  —  that  within  the  last 
twelve-month  Butch  had  learned  his  trade  of  chauffeur 
and  pursued  it  with  such  diligence  that,  aside  from  being 
the  main  support  of  the  family  which  she  had  deserted, 
he  was  half-owner  of  his  taxicab  and  in  a  way  to  acquire 
an  interest  in  a  small  garage.  .  .  . 

When  the  carriage  stopped,  the  father  was  the  first 
to  alight.  With  no  word  or  look  for  either  of  his  daugh- 
ters, and  only  a  semi-articulate  growl  for  Butch,  to  the 
effect  that  they  'd  see  one  another  again  at  dinner,  he 
pulled  his  rusty  derby  well  forward  over  his  haggard, 
haunted  eyes,  thrust  his  hands  deep  into  trouser-pockets, 
and  slouched  ponderously  away  in  the  direction  of  his 
news-stand.  Before  he  turned  the  avenue  corner,  Joan, 


JOAN    THURSDAY  367 

looking  after  him  while  she  waited  for  Butch  to  settle 
with  the  driver,  saw  Thursby  produce  his  packet  of 
dope  and,  moistening  a  thumb,  begin  to  con  it  as  he 
plodded  on. 

So,  pursuing  his  passion  to  the  end,  he  passed  forever 
from  her  life,  yet  never  altogether  from  her  memory;  in 
which,  as  time  matured  the  girl,  his  inscrutable  per- 
sonality assumed  the  character  of  a  symbol  of  aborted 
destiny.  What  he  had  been,  whence  he  had  sprung,  what 
he  might  have  become,  she  never  learned.  .  .  . 

Then,  preceded  by  Edna,  followed  by  Butch,  she 
climbed  for  the  last  time  those  weary  stairs. 

Arrived  in  the  flat,  Butch  shut  himself  into  his  room 
to  change  to  working  clothes.  He  could  not  afford  to 
waste  an  afternoon,  he  said.  Joan  and  Edna  sat  down 
in  the  dark  and  dismal  dining-room,  conferring  in  hushed 
voices  until  he  rejoined  them.  He  came  forth  presently, 
the  inevitable  cigarette  drooping  from  his  thin,  hard  lips, 
and  sat  down,  his  spare,  wiry  body  looking  uncommonly 
well  set-up  and  capable  in  the  chauffeur's  livery. 

After  a  little  hesitation,  Joan  mustered  up  courage  to 
say  her  say,  if  with  something  nearly  approaching  appeal 
in  the  way  that  she  addressed  this  taciturn  and  self- 
sufficient  man  who  had  replaced  her  loaferish  brother. 

"  I  've  been  telling  Edna,"  she  said,  "  that  I  'm  going 
to  take  care  of  her  from  now  on." 

"  That  so  ? "  Butch  exhaled  twin  jets  of  smoke  from 
his  nostrils.  "  How  ?  "  he  enquired  without  prejudice. 

"  Well  .  .  .  she  's  coming  to  live  with  me  —  " 

"Where?" 

"  I  don't  know.  I  'm  leaving  where  you  found  me. 
By  the  way,  how  did  you  know  where  to  look  for  me, 
Butch?" 

"  Seen  you  one  day  when  you  was  livin'  in  the  Astoria 
Inn.  There  's  a  dairy  lunch  on  the  ground  floor  where  I 
gen'ly  eat.  After  that  I  kept  an  eye  on  you." 

"  Oh !  "  said  Joan  thoughtfully,  wondering  how  much 


368  JOAN    THURSDAY 

that  eye  had  seen  of  the  brief  but  lurid  existence 
she  had  led  before  coming  partially  to  her  senses  and 
moving  to  share  Hattie  Morrison's  lodgings.  "  Well,  I  '11 
find  a  good  place,  and  Edna  can  stay  with  me  and  act  as 
my  maid  until  she  's  old  enough  to  find  something  to  do 
for  herself." 

"  On  the  stage,  eh  ?  " 

"  I  guess  so.  I  'm  getting  on,  you  know.  Chances  are 
I  could  give  her  a  boost." 

Butch  shook  his  head :  "  Nothin'  doin'." 

"Why?" 

He  was  unmoved  by  the  flash  of  hostility  in  Joan's 
manner. 

"  I  guess,"  he  said  after  a  deliberate  pause,  "  we  don't 
have  to  go  into  that.  Anyway,  I  got  other  plans  for 
Edna.  She  's  goin'  to  the  country,  up-State,  to  spend  the 
summer  on  a  farm  —  family  of  a  fellow  I  know.  After 
that,  if  she  's  strong  enough,  she  can  come  back  and  keep 
house  for  me,  if  she  wants  to,  or  go  to  work  any  way  she 
chooses  —  that 's  not  my  business.  Only  —  understand 
me  —  she  is  n't  going  to  go  into  the  chorus  until  she  's 
old  enough  to  know  what  she  's  doin',  and  strong  enough 
to  stand  the  racket.  That 's  settled." 

Rising,  he  jerked  the  stub  of  his  cigarette  through  the 
airshaft  window,  and  slowly  drew  on  his  gauntlets. 

"  You  do  what  packin'  you  wanta,  kid,"  he  advised 
Edna,  "  before  three  o'clock  thisaft'noon.  I  '11  be  back  for 
you  then.  Your  train  leaves  at  four.  You  '11  travel  along 
with  the  mother  of  this  friend  of  mine  —  Mrs.  Simmons, 
her  name  is." 

As  he  had  said,  the  matter  was  settled.  Joan  conceded 
the  point  without  bickering,  with  indeed  a  feeling  of  mean 
relief.  Moreover,  she  was  afraid  of  Butch.  .  .  . 

The  flat  in  Fiftieth  Street  had  gained  associations  in- 
sufferably hateful.  She  returned  to  it  only  long  enough 
to  pack  up  and  move  out.  Incidentally  she  found,  read, 
and  destroyed  without  answering,  a  note  from  Fowey 


JOAN    THURSDAY  369 

suggesting  an  assignation.  Her  paradoxical  dislike  for 
the  man  had  deepened  into  detestation.  She  both  hoped 
and  intended  never  to  see  him  again. 

She  moved  before  nightfall,  leaving  no  address,  and 
established  herself  in  an  inexpensive  but  reputable  board- 
ing establishment,  little  frequented  by  the  class  of  the- 
atrical people  with  which  she  was  acquainted,  and  where 
a  repetition  of  her  escapade  was  impossible.  On  the  third 
day  following  she  began  rehearsing  privately  with  Glouces- 
ter, and  threw  into  the  work  all  she  could  muster  of 
strength,  patience,  and  intelligence,  leaving  herself,  at  the 
end  of  each  day's  work,  too  exhausted  in  mind  and  body 
to  indulge  in  any  of  the  pleasures  to  which  her  tastes 
inclined. 

Fowey,  unable  to  trace  her  and  seeing  nothing  of  the 
girl  in  those  restaurants  and  places  of  amusement  she  had 
been  wont  to  frequent,  in  time  gave  up  the  chase;  and 
before  the  first  presentation  of  "  Mrs.  Mixer  "  the  news- 
papers supplied  Joan  with  the  news  of  his  clandestine 
marriage  and  subsequent  flight  to  Europe  with  a  widow 
whose  fortune  doubtless  promised  compensation  for  the 
fact  that  she  had  a  son  nearly  as  old  as  her  latest  husband. 


XXXVIII 

THE  rehearsals  of  "  Tomorrow's  People  "  were  arranged 
to  begin  on  the  twenty-third  day  of  September ;  and  since 
all  the  important  roles  had  been  filled  before  he  left  Town, 
and  Wilbrow,  whom  he  could  trust,  had  charge  of  all 
other  details,  Matthias  delayed  his  home-coming  until  the 
twenty-second. 

Not  until  the  twentieth  did  he  emerge  from  the  wilder- 
ness up  back  of  the  Allagash  country  into  the  comparative 
civilization  of  Moosehead  Lake.  In  eight  weeks  he  had 
not  written  a  line,  received  a  letter,  or  read  a  newspaper. 
But,  as  he  telegraphed  Helena  from  the  Mt.  Kineo  House, 
he  was  so  healthy  that  he  was  ashamed  of  it. 

The  day-letter  telegram  she  sent  in  reply  was  delivered 
on  the  train.  Its  news,  though  condensed,  was  reassur- 
ing: Venetia  was  well  and  her  boy  developing  into  a 
famous  ruffian;  the  two  were  making  a  visit  at  Tangle- 
wood,  and  on  the  return  of  Marbridge  from  his  summer  in 
Europe  would  move  back  to  New  York,  where  Venetia 
was  to  reassume  charge  of  his  town-house. 

Thus  satisfied  as  to  the  welfare  of  the  woman  he  loved, 
Matthias  gave  himself  up  completely  to  the  production  of 
his  play;  and  through  the  following  four  weeks  lived  in 
the  theatre  by  day,  dreamed  of  it  by  night,  thought,  talked, 
and  wrote  only  in  its  singular  terminology. 

Few  facts  unconnected  with  his  own  play  penetrated  his 
understanding,  in  all  that  period.  But,  dining  with  Wil- 
brow one  night  at  the  general  table  in  the  Players,  he 
overheard  Gloucester  railing  bitterly  at  the  ill-fortune 
which  had  induced  him  to  pledge  himself  to  stage  a  modern 
satirical  comedy  for  Arlington  and  to  train  for  the  lead- 


JOAN    THURSDAY  371 

ing  part  a  raw  and  almost  inexperienced  stage-struck 
girl. 

He  detailed  his  trials  in  vivid  phrases : 

"  As  far  as  I  know,  she 's  never  played  in  anything 
except  a  bum  vaudeville  sketch,  and  I  had  hell's  own  time 
making  her  fit  to  play  that.  And  yet  she  's  got  the  in- 
effable nerve  to  keep  picking  at  my  way  of  doing  things 
on  the  general  ground  that  it  ain't  Tom  Wilbrow's.  Seems 
he  had  the  privilege  of  rehearsing  her  for  a  five-side  part 
in  that  punk  show  of  Jack  Matthias',  that  went  to  pieces 
out  on  the  Coast  last  Summer.  If  Wilbrow  wasn't  lis- 
tening with  all  his  ears,  over  there,  I  'd  tell  you  what  I 
said  to  the  young  woman  the  last  time  she  threw  him  in 
my  face.  .  .  .  What?  .  .  .  Oh,  nobody  you  ever  heard 
of.  Calls  herself  Thursday  —  Joan  Thursday.  ...  Of 
course  I  rowed  with  Arlington  about  her,  but  he  only 
shrugged  and  grinned  and  said  she  had  to  play  it  and 
I  'd  got  to  make  her  play  it  —  offered  to  bet  me  a  thou- 
sand over  and  above  my  fees  I  could  n't  do  it.  ...  Sure, 
I  took  him  up.  Why  not  ?  I  '11  make  her  act  it  yet.  I 
could  make  a  Casino  chorus  boy  act  human  if  I  was  n't 
so  squeamish.  .  .  .  Oh,  Marbridge  —  one  of  his  discov- 
eries. I  saw  him  handing  her  gently  into  that  big,  brazen 
touring-car  of  his,  in  front  of  Rector's,  night  before  last. 
Fragile  's  the  word  — • l  handle  with  care !  ' 

Wilbrow,  interrogated,  supplied  the  context.  Arlington 
had  bought  up,  through  a  third  party,  Mrs.  Cardrow's  in- 
terest in  "  Mrs.  Mixer,"  advising  her  to  sell  out  because 
the  play  had  already  scored  one  failure  and  promising  her 
another  play  in  which  she  would  stand  better  chance  to  win 
New  York  audiences.  This  was  an  old  comedy  from  the 
French,  revamped,  and  was  even  then  being  rehearsed  with 
a  scrub  company  and  a  scratch  outfit  of  scenery,  the  pro- 
duction to  be  made  on  the  same  night  that  "  Mrs.  Mixer  " 
was  to  tempt  fate  with  Joan  Thursday;  the  designated 
date  being  the  twenty-fifth  of  October,  a  Wednesday. 

Matthias  promptly  dismissed  the  matter  from  his  mind : 


372  JOAN    THURSDAY 

he  speculated  a  little,  hazily  about  Marbridge,  in  his  con- 
stitutional inability  to  understand  that  gentleman,  felt 
more  than  ever  sorry  for  Venetia  and  wondered  how  much 
longer  she  would  stand  it  all  —  and  plunged  again  into 
his  preoccupation. 

"  Tomorrow's  People  "  was  announced  for  production 
on  Monday,  October  the  twenty-third.  But  after  the  dress- 
rehearsal  on  Sunday  certain  changes  recommended  them- 
selves as  advisable  to  the  judgment  of  the  author,  who 
persuaded  the  management  to  postpone  the  opening  night 
until  Wednesday.  At  ten  minutes  to  twelve  on  that  night 
the  final  curtain  fell  upon  a  successful  representation ;  an 
audience  in  its  wraps  blocked  the  aisles  until  after  mid- 
night, applauding  and  demanding  the  author;  who,  how- 
ever, was  not  in  the  theatre. 

He  had,  in  fact,  not  been  near  it  since  the  curtain, 
falling  on  the  first  act,  had  persuaded  him  of  the  general 
friendliness  of  an  audience  and  the  competency  of  the  com- 
pany. This  culmination  of  a  nerve-racking  strain  which 
had  endured  without  respite  for  over  a  month  found  him 
without  courage  to  await  the  verdict.  He  took  to  the 
streets  and  walked  himself  weary  in  vain  effort  to  refrain 
from  circling  back  toward  the  building  whose  walls  housed 
his  fate. 

At  length,  in  desperation  hoping  to  distract  his  thoughts 
from  the  supreme  issue,  he  purchased  a  ticket  of  admission 
to  another  theatre,  above  whose  entrance  blazed  the  an- 
nouncement "  Mrs.  Mixer,"  and  stationed  himself  at  the 
back  of  the  orchestra  to  witness  the  last  part  of  the 
performance. 

He  saw  the  self-confidence  of  Gloucester  supremely 
justified:  the  satiric  farce  marched  steadily,  scene  by 
scene,  to  a  success  that  was  to  keep  it  on  Broadway  through 
the  winter  and  make  the  name  of  Joan  Thursday  a  house- 
hold word  throughout  the  Union.  Her  personal  success  was 
as  unquestionable  as  her  beauty;  she  played  with  grace, 
vivacity,  charm,  and  distinction;  and  only  to  the  initiate 


JOAN    THURSDAY  373 

of  the  theatre  was  it  apparent  that  Gloucester  had  found 
in  her  the  perfect  medium  for  the  transmission  of  his 
art.  Matthias  could  see,  in  company  with  a  few  of  the 
more  discriminating  and  stage-wise,  that  she  employed 
not  a  gesture,  intonation  or  bit  of  business  which  had  not 
originated  with  Gloucester ;  she  brought  to  her  role  on  her 
part  nothing  but  beauty  and  an  unshakable  self-confidence 
so  thoroughly  ingrained  that  it  escaped  suggesting  self- 
consciousness.  The  triumph  was,  rightly,  first  Gloucester's, 
then  the  play's ;  but  the  public  acclaimed  the  actress,  and 
the  one  acidulated  critic  who  hailed  her,  the  following 
morning,  as  "  at  last !  —  the  perfect  human  kinetophone 
record !  "  was  listened  to  by  none,  least  of  all  by  the  sub- 
ject of  his  sarcasm.  Marbridge,  in  a  stage  box,  led  the 
applause  at  the  conclusion  of  each  act;  and  at  the  end 
of  the  play  Arlington  came  in  person  before  the  curtain, 
leading  by  the  hand  the  gracefully  reluctant  Joan,  and 
in  a  few  suave  sentences  thanked  the  audience  for  its 
appreciation  and  a  beneficent  Providence  for  granting 
him  this  opportunity  of  fixing  a  new  star  in  the  theatrical 
firmament :  the  name  of  "  this  little  girl,"  he  promised 
(bowing  to  Joan)  would  appear  in  letters  of  fire  over  the 
theatre,  the  next  ni^ht.  .  .  . 

Pausing  in  the  lobby  to  light  a  cigarette  before  leaving, 
Matthias  overheard  one  of  Arlington's  lieutenants  con- 
fiding to  another  the  news  of  the  ruinous  failure  of  the 
third  initial  production  of  that  night. 

Half  an  hour  later  he  met  Wilbrow  by  appointment  in 
a  quiet,  non-theatrical  club,  and  received  from  him  con- 
firmation of  rumours  which  had  already  reached  him  of 
his  own  triumph  with  "Tomorrow's  People." 

"  You  're  a  made  man  now,"  Wilbrow  told  him  with 
sincere  good  will  and  some  little  honest  envy ;  "  by  to- 
morrow morning  the  pack  will  be  at  your  heels,  yapping 
for  a  chance  to  put  on  every  old  'script  in  your  trunk." 

"  I  suppose  so,"  Matthias  nodded  soberly. 

"  But  there  's  one  comfort  about  that,"  Wilbrow  pur- 


374  JOAN    THURSDAY 

sued  cheerfully :  "  whatever  the  temptation,  you  won't 
give  'em  anything  but  sound,  sane,  workmanlike  stuff. 
You  've  proved  yourself  one  of  the  two  or  three,  at  most, 
playwrights  in  this  country  who  are  able  to  think  and  to 
make  an  audience  think  without  losing  sight  of  the  fact 
that,  in  the  last  analysis,  '  the  play  's  the  thing.'  We  've 
got  plenty  of  authors  nowadays  who  can  turn  out  first- 
chop  melodrama,  and  we  've  got  a  respectable  percentage 
of  'em  who  write  plays  so  full  of  honest  and  intelligent 
thought  that  it  gives  the  average  manager  a  headache  to 
look  at  the  'script;  but  the  men  who  can  give  us  the 
sort  of  drama  that  not  only  makes  you  think  but  holds 
you  on  the  front  edge  of  your  seat  waiting  to  see  what 's 
coming  next  .  .  .  Well,  they  're  few  and  far  between,  and 
you  're  one  of  'em,  and  I  'm  proud  to  have  had  a  hand  in 
putting  you  before  the  public !  " 

"  You  've  got  nothing  on  me,  there,"  Matthias  grinned : 
"  I  'm  proud  you  had.  And  if  I  can  get  my  own  way 
after  this  —  " 

"  You  don't  need  to  join  the  I-Should- Worries  on  ac- 
count of  that !  " 

"  You  '11  be  the  only  man  who  will  ever  produce  one 
of  my  plays." 

Between  one  o'clock  and  two  they  parted.  Matthias 
trudged  home,  completely  fagged  in  body,  but  with  a 
buoyant  heart  to  sustain  him. 

Venetia  would  be  glad  for  him.  .  .  . 

He  was  ascending  the  steps  of  Number  289  when  a 
heavy  touring-car,  coming  from  the  direction  of  Longacre 
Square,  swung  in  to  the  curb  and  stopped.  Latch-key  in 
hand,  Matthias  paused  and  looked  back  in  some  little 
surprise:  the  lodgers  of  Madame  Duprat  were  a  motley, 
lot,  but  as  far  as  he  knew  none  of  them  were  of  the  class 
that  maintains  expensive  automobiles.  But  this  car,  upon 
inspection,  proved  to  be  tenanted  by  the  chauffeur  alone; 
who,  leaving  the  motor  purring,  jumped  smartly  from  his 
seat  and  ran  up  the  steps. 


JOAN    THURSDAY  375 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir/'  lie  said,  touching  his  cap, 
"  but  I  'm  looking  for  a  gentleman  named  Matthias  —  " 

"  I  am  Mr.  Matthias." 

"  Thank  you,  sir.  I  've  been  sent  to  fetch  you.  It 's 
—  er  —  important,  I  fancy,"  the  man  added,  eyeing 
Matthias  curiously. 

"  You  've  been  sent  to  fetch  me  ?    But  who  sent  you  ?  " 

"  My  employer,  sir  —  Mr.  Marbridge." 

"  Marbridge !  "  Matthias  echoed,  startled.  Without 
definite  decision,  he  turned  and  ran  down  the  steps  in 
company  with  the  chauffeur:  Venetia  in  need  of  him, 
perhaps  ..."  What 's  happened  ?  "  he  demanded.  "  Is 
Mrs.  Marbridge  —  ?  " 

"  If  you  '11  just  get  in,  sir,"  the  man  replied,  "  I  '11 
tell  you  —  as  much  as  I  know  —  on  the  way.  It  '11  save 
time." 

He  opened  the  door  of  the  tonneau,  but  Matthias  turned 
from  it,  walked  round  the  car,  and  climbed  into  the  seat 
beside  the  driver's.  With  a  nod  of  satisfaction,  the  chauf- 
feur joined  him,  threw  in  the  power,  and  deftly  swung 
the  ponderous  vehicle  about. 

"  Well  ? "  Matthias  asked  as  the  machine  shot  across- 
town. 

"  Beg  pardon,  sir,"  the  man  replied  after  a  moment  — 
"  but  I  'd  rather  not  say  anything,  if  it 's  all  the  same  to 

you." 

"  It  is  n't,"  Matthias  insisted  curtly.  "  I  'm  not  on 
sufficiently  friendly  terms  with  Mr.  Marbridge  for  him 
to  send  for  me  without  explanation." 

"  Yes,  sir;  but  you  see,  part  of  my  job  is  to  keep  my 
mouth  shut." 

"  I  'm  afraid  I  shall  have  to  ask  you  to  forget  that 
duty  to  some  extent,  or  else  stop  the  car  and  let  me 
out." 

u  Very  good,  sir.  I  don't  suppose  I  can  do  any  harm 
telling  what  little  I  know.  After  supper  tonight,  Mr. 
Marbridge  told  me  to  take  the  car  to  the  garage  and  not 


376  JOAN    THURSDAY 

to  expect  a  call  for  it  until  sometime  tomorrow  morning; 
but  when  I  got  there,  he  was  already  wanting  me  on 
the  telephone.  He  said  there  'd  been  an  accident,  and 
told  me  to  find  Mr.  Arlington  first  and  then  you,  and 
ask  you  to  come  immediately." 

"  But  why  me  ?  "  Matthias  asked,  more  of  himself  than 
of  the  driver. 

"  He  did  n't  say,  sir." 

"  Did  he  state  what  sort  of  an  accident  ?  " 

"No,  sir." 

"  You  found  Mr.  Arlington  ?  " 

"  No,  sir ;  he  was  n't  in  when  I  asked  at  his  hotel. 
But  I  left  a  message  before  coming  on  for  you." 

Matthias  sat  up  with  a  start.  Instead  of  turning  up 
Broadway  the  man  was  steering  his  car  straight  across 
Longacre  Square.  Before  he  had  time  to  comment  on  this 
fact  they  were  speeding  on  toward  Sixth  Avenue. 

"  Look  here,"  he  cried,  "  you  're  not  taking  me  to  Mr. 
Marbridge's  home !  " 

"  No,  sir." 

"But  —  " 

"  Mr.  Marbridge  had  n't  gone  home  when  he  telephoned 
me,  sir." 

"  Where  is  he,  then  ?  " 

"  We  '11  be  there  in  a  minute,  sir  —  an  apartment  house 
on  Madison  Avenue." 

"  Oh !  "  said  Matthias  thoughtfully.  "  Was  Mr.  Mar- 
bridge  —  ah  —  alone  when  you  left  him  tonight  ?  " 

"  I  'd  rather  not  say,  sir,  if  you  don't  mind." 

Troubled  by  an  inkling  of  the  disaster,  Matthias  com- 
posed himself  to  patience. 

Turning  south  on  Fifth  Avenue,  the  car  passed  Thirty- 
fourth  Street  before  swinging  eastward  again.  It  stopped, 
eventually,  in  the  side  street,  just  short  of  the  corner  of 
Madison  Avenue,  before  a  private  entrance  to  a  ground- 
floor  apartment,  such  as  physicians  prefer.  But  Matthias 
could  discern  no  physician's  name-plate  upon  the  door  at 


JOAN    THURSDAY  377 

which  his  guide  knocked,  or  in  either  of  the  flanking 
windows. 

Opening,  the  door  disclosed  a  panelled  entry  tenanted 
by  a  white-lipped  woman  in  the  black  and  white  uniform 
of  a  lady's-maid.  Her  frightened  eyes  examined  Matthias 
apprehensively  as  he  entered,  followed  by  the  chauffeur. 

This  last  demanded  briefly:    "Doctor  been?" 

The  maid  assented  with  a  nervous  nod :  "  Ten  minutes 
ago,  about.  He  's  with  the  lady  now  —  " 

"  Lady !  "  the  chauffeur  echoed.  "  But  I  thought  it 
was  Mr.  Marbridge  —  " 

"  I  mean  the  other  lady,"  the  maid  explained  —  "  the 
one  what  done  the  shooting.  When  Mr.  Marbridge  got 
the  gun  away  from  her,  he  locked  her  up  in  the  bathroom, 
and  then  she  had  hysterics.  The  doctor  's  trying  to  make 
her  hush,  so  's  she  won't  disturb  the  other  tenants,  but  .  .  . 
You  can  hear  yourself  how  she  's  carrying  on." 

In  a  pause  that  followed,  Matthias  was  conscious  of 
the  sound  of  high-pitched  and  incessant  laughter,  slightly 
muffled,  emanating  from  some  distant  part  of  the  flat. 

He  asked  abruptly :   "  Where  is  Mr.  Marbridge  ?  " 

The  maid  started  and  hesitated,  looking  to  the  chauffeur. 

"  This  is  Mr.  Matthias,"  that  one  explained.  "  Mr. 
Marbridge  sent  for  him." 

"  Oh,  yes  —  excuse  me,  sir.     This  way,  if  you  please." 

Opening  a  door  on  the  right,  the  woman  permitted 
Matthias  to  pass  through,  then  closed  it. 

He  found  himself  in  a  dining-room  of  moderate  propor- 
tions and  handsomely  furnished.  Little  of  it  was  visible, 
however,  outside  the  radius  of  illumination  cast  by  an  elec- 
tric dome  which,  depending  from  the  middle  of  the  ceil- 
ing, focussed  its  rays  upon  a  small  round  dining-table 
of  mahogany.  This  table  was  quite  bare  save  for  a  mas- 
sive decanter  of  cut-glass  standing  at  the  edge  of  a  puddle 
of  spilt  liquor:  as  if  an  uncertain  hand  had  attempted 
to  pour  a  drink.  Near  it  lay  a  broken  goblet. 

On  the  farther  side  of  the  table  a  woman  with  young 


378  JOAN    THURSDAY 

and  slender  figure  stood  in  a  pose  of  arrested  action, 
holding  a  goblet  half-full  of  brandy  and  water.  Her  fea- 
tures were  but  indistinctly  suggested  in  the  penumbra  of 
the  dome,  but  beneath  this  her  bare  arms  and  shoulders, 
rising  out  of  an  elaborate  evening  gown,  shone  with  a 
soft  warm  lustre.  Matthias  remembered  that  gown :  Joan 
Thursday  had  worn  it  in  the  last  act  of  "  Mrs.  Mixer." 
But  she  neither  moved  nor  spoke,  and  for  the  time  being 
he  paid  her  no  further  heed,  giving  his  attention  entirely 
to  Marbridge. 

Sitting  low  in  a  deeply  upholstered  wing-chair  —  out 
of  place  in  the  dining-room  and  evidently  dragged  in  for 
the  emergency  —  Marbridge  breathed  heavily,  chin  on 
his  chest,  his  coarse  mouth  ajar,  his  face  ghastly  with  a 
stricken  pallor.  His  feet  sprawled  uncouthly.  The 
dress  coat  and  waistcoat  he  had  worn  lay  in  a  heap 
on  the  floor,  near  the  chair,  and  both  shirt  and  undershirt 
had  been  ripped  and  cut  away  from  his  right  shoulder, 
exposing  his  swarthy  and  hairy  bosom  and  a  sort  of  tem- 
porary bandage  which,  like  his  linen,  was  darkly  stained. 
Closed  when  Matthias  entered,  his  eyes  opened  almost  in- 
stantly and  fixed  upon  the  man  a  heavy  and  lacklustre 
stare  which  at  first  failed  to  indicate  recognition. 

Matthias  heard  himself  crying  out  in  a  voice  of  horror : 
"  Good  God,  Marbridge !  How  did  this  happen  ?  " 

The  man  stirred,  grunted  with  pain,  and  made  a  dep- 
recatory gesture  with  his  left  hand. 

"  Need  n't  yell,"  he  said  thickly :  "  I  've  been  shot  .  .  . 
done  for  .  .  ." 

His  gaze  shifted  heavily  to  the  woman.  With  effort  he 
enunciated  one  word  more :  "  Drink  .  .  ." 

As  though  by  that  monosyllable  freed  from  an  enchain- 
ing spell,  Joan  started,  moved  quickly  to  his  side  and  held 
the  goblet  to  his  lips. 

He  drank  noisily,  gulping  and  slobbering;  overflowing 
at  either  corner  of  his  mouth,  the  liquor  dripped  twin 
streams  upon  his  naked  bosom. 


JOAN    THURSDAY  379 

Mechanically  Matthias  put  his  hat  down  on  the 
table. 

He  experienced  an  incredulous  sensation,  as  though  he 
were  struggling  to  cast  off  the  terror  and  oppression  of 
some  particularly  vivid  and  coherent  nightmare. 

From  the  farther  room  that  noise  persisted  of  monoto- 
nous and  awful  laughter. 

Marbridge  ceased  to  swallow  and  grunted.  Joan  re- 
moved the  glass  and  drew  away  without  looking  at  Mat- 
thias. At  a  cost  of  considerable  will-power,  apparently, 
the  wounded  man  collected  himself  and  levelled  at 
Matthias  his  louring,  but  now  less  dull,  regard. 

"  Oh,  it 's  you,  is  it  ?  "  he  said  ungraciously.  "  Well, 
you  '11  do  at  a  pinch.  ...  I  wanted  Arlington  .  .  .  but 
you  if  he  could  n't  be  found." 

"  Well,"  said  Matthias  stupidly,  "  I  'm  here.  .  .  .  The 
doctor  's  seen  you,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"  Yes  —  did  what  he  could  for  me  —  no  use  wasting 
effort  —  it 's  my  cue  to  exit." 

"  Oh,  come !    It 's  not  as  bad  as  that !  " 

"  The  hell  it  ain't.  The  doctor  knows  —  I  know.  Not 
that  it  matters.  It  was  coming  to  me  and  I  got  it." 

"Where's  the  doctor?"  Matthias  insisted.  "Why 
is  n't  he  attending  you  now  ?  " 

"  He  's  in  the  other  room  .  .  .  trying  to  silence  that 
crazy  woman.  .  .  .  She  plugged  me  and  .  .  .  went  into 
hysterics  .  .  ." 

"  Who  ?  " 

"  ISTella  Cardrow.  .  .  .  Had  the  devil  of  a  time  with 
her  before  doctor  came  .  .  .  trying  to  keep  her  from  rush- 
ing out  and  giving  herself  up  ...  all  this  in  the 
papers.  .  .  .  But  all  right  now :  we  '11  hush  it  up." 

"  Then  that 's  what  you  want  of  me  ?  " 

"  Wait,"  Marbridge  grunted.    "  Where  's  that  girl  ?  " 

Joan  moved  back  to  his  side.  "  What  can  I  do  ?  "  she 
said;  and  these  were  all  the  words  Matthias  heard  her 
utter  from  first  to  last  of  that  business. 


380  JOAN    THURSDAY 

Marbridge  nodded  at  her  with  a  curling  lip :  "  You 
can  get  out !  " 

She  turned  sharply  and  left  the  room,  banging  the 
door. 

"  That  'a  the  kind  she  is,"  Marbridge  commented. 
"  You  were  lucky  to  get  rid  of  her  as  easy  as  you  did.  .  .  . 
Give  me  more  brandy,  will  you,  like  a  good  fellow  —  and 
be  stingy  with  the  water.  I  've  got  to  ...  hold  out  a 
couple  of  hours  more." 

Matthias  served  him. 

"  I  presume  Venetia  knows  nothing  about  this,  yet  ? " 

Having  drunk,  Marbridge  shook  his  head.  "  Not  yet. 
Now,  listen  .  .  .  You  guessed  it:  I  want  you  to  help 
hush  this  up,  for  Venetia's  sake.  .  .  .  Rotten  mess  —  do 
no  good  if  it  gets  in  the  papers  —  only  humiliation  for 
her.  Will  you—  ?" 

"  What  is  it  you  want  me  to  do  ? " 

"  Help  me  home  and  keep  your  mouth  shut.  .  .  .  You 
see,  this  is  my  place ;  I  've  had  it  years ;  very  handy  — 
private  entrance  —  all  that.  .  .  .  Nella  used  to  meet  me 
here.  That  'a  how  she  came  to  have  a  key.  I  'd  forgotten. 
.  .  .  Well,  I  got  tired  of  her,  and  she  could  n't  act,  and 
Arlington  was  sore  about  that.  So  we  planned  to  get  rid 
of  her.  I  guess  you  must  've  heard.  It  was  a  dirty 
business,  all  round.  .  .  .  And  tonight,  when  her  play 
went  to  pieces,  just  as  we  'd  planned  it  should,  she  saw 
how  she  'd  been  bilked  and  lost  her  head.  .  .  .  Came 
here,  let  herself  in  quietly,  without  the  maid's  hearing 
her,  and  shot  me  when  I  came  in  with  Joan.  I  managed 
to  get  the  gun  away  before  she  could  turn  it  on  herself, 
and  locked  her  up.  Then  —  hysterics.  .  .  .  Well,  I  'm 
finished.  I  asked  for  it,  and  got  it.  ...  No :  no  remorse 
bunk,  no  deathbed  repentance,  nothing  like  that !  But  I 
realize  I  've  been  a  pretty  rotten  proposition,  first  and  last. 
Never  mind.  .  .  .  What  I  'm  getting  at 's  this :  nobody 
need  suffer  but  me.  That 's  where  you  come  in.  For 
Venetia's  sake.  You  and  Arlington  and  the  doctor  can 


JOAN    THURSDAY  381 

cover  it  all  up  between  you.  Arlie  can  quiet  that  girl  — 
Joan  —  and  the  doctor  's  all  right ;  he  '11  want  a  pretty 
stiff  cheque  to  fix  the  undertaker  —  and  that 's  all  right, 
too.  Then  you  've  got  to  scare  Nella  Cardrow  so  's  she 
won't  give  herself  away,  and  buy  my  chauffeur  and  that 
maid  out  there,  Sara.  .  .  .  But  first  off,  you  '11  have  to 
help  doctor  get  me  home  and  in  bed.  I  'm  the  sort  that 's 
got  to  die  in  the  house." 

His  chin  dropped  again. 

"  Well  ...  I  guess  it 's  a  good  job  ...  at  that  .  .  ." 

He  shivered. 

The  hall-door  opened  and  Arlington  entered,  followed 
by  a  lean  man  with  worried  eyes  who  proved  to  be  the 
doctor. 


XXXIX 

SHORTLY  before  seven  o'clock,  that  same  morning,  a 
limousine  car  pulled  up  quietly  just  short  of  the  corner 
of  Madison  Avenue,  and  its  occupant,  with  a  word  on 
alighting  to  his  driver,  addressed  himself  briskly  to  the 
door  of  the  ground-floor  flat. 

He  was  a  handsome,  well  dressed,  well-set-up  and  well- 
nourished  animal  of  something  more  than  middle-age: 
a  fact  which  the  pitilessly  clear  light  of  early  morning 
betrayed,  discovering  lines  and  hollows  in  his  clean-shaven 
countenance  which  would  ordinarily  have  escaped  notice. 

But  he  had  passed  that  time  of  life  when  he  could  suffer 
a  sleepless  night  of  anxiety  without  visibly  paying  for  it. 

His  intention  to  announce  himself  by  ringing  the 
bell  was  promptly  anticipated,  the  door  opening  before 
his  finger  could  touch  the  button.  He  checked  momentarily 
in  obvious  surprise,  then  jauntily  lifted  his  hat  as  he 
stepped  hurriedly  inside. 

"  Why,  my  dear !  "  he  addressed  the  woman  who  held 
the  door  —  "  up  so  early !  " 

"  I  have  n't  been  to  bed,  of  course,  Mr.  Arlington," 
Joan  informed  him. 

"Well,"  he  observed,  not  without  envy,  "you  don't 
look  it." 

"  I  've  been  packing  all  night,"  she  returned.  "  Of 
course  —  I  can't  stay  here,  after  what 's  happened." 

"  Of  course  not,"  he  agreed  sympathetically. 

Having  closed  the  outside  door,  she  moved  before  him 
into  a  small  drawing-room  which  adjoined  the  entry-hall 
on  the  left,  and  when  he  had  followed  shut  its  door  with 
particular  care. 


JOAN    THURSDAY  383 

"  Sara  's  still  packing,"  she  explained,  turning  to  Ar- 
lington. "Well?" 

He  hesitated,  looking  her  over  with  a  doubtful  eye. 
But  she  was,  at  least  outwardly,  quite  cool  and  collected, 
her  manner  exhibiting  no  undue  amount  of  anxiety. 

Still,  a  certain  amount  of  make-believe  would  seem  no 
more  than  decent.  .  .  . 

"  Look  here,"  he  said  almost  sharply  —  "  you  're  feel- 
ing all  right,  eh  ? " 

"  Quite  —  only  tired  as  a  dog ;   and  naturally  —  " 

"  I  understand,"  he  interrupted.  "  But  you  '11  be  fit 
to  go  on  tonight,  you  think  ?  " 

"  Don't  worry  about  that,"  Joan  advised  him  decidedly. 
"  I  'm  hoping  to  get  a  nap  before  evening,  but  even  if  I 
don't,  I  know  the  first  duty  of  an  actress  is  always  to  her 
public." 

"  Yes,"  Arlington  agreed  briefly,  avoiding  her  eyes.  .  .  . 
"  Still,  I  must  ask  you  to  be  prepared." 

Joan's  figure  stiffened  slightly,  and  her  dark  eyes 
widened. 

"  Dead  ?  "  she  questioned  in  a  low  voice. 

Arlington  nodded.  "  I  'm  sorry  .  .  .  About  half  an 
hour  after  we  got  him  home." 

The  girl  sat  down  suddenly  and  buried  her  face  in  her 
hands. 

"  Oh !  "  she  cried  in  a  stifled  voice  —  "  how  awful !  " 

"  There !  "  Arlington  moved  over  and  rested  a  hand 
familiarly  on  her  shoulder.  "  Brace  up.  You  '11  forget 
all  about  this  before  long." 

"  O  no  —  never !  "  she  moaned  through  her  fingers. 

"  But  you  will,"  he  insisted,  looking  down  at  her  with 
an  odd  expression.  "  To  begin  with,  I  'm  going  to  make 
it  my  business  to  see  that  you  forget.  You  must.  You 
can't  do  justice  to  your  —  genius,  if  you  keep  harping  on 
this  accident.  It  was  n't  your  fault,  you  know.  Just  as 
soon  as  I  've  arranged  a  few  details  .  .  .  By  the  way, 
how  's  the  Cardrow  woman  ?  " 


384  JOAN    THURSDAY 

"  Asleep,"  Joan  answered.  "  She  has  n't  made  a  bit 
of  trouble  since  the  doctor  gave  her  that  dope  —  whatever 
it  was." 

"  Good.  He  '11  be  along  presently  with  a  nurse  he  can 
trust.  And  by  that  time  I  '11  have  you  out  of  the  way. 
I  know  just  the  place  for  you,  a  little  flat  uptown,  on 
Fifty-ninth  Street,  overlooking  the  Park.  You  '11  be  very 
quiet  and  comfortable  there,  and  near  the  theatre  besides." 

"  I  'm  glad  of  that.  I  was  thinking,  of  course,  I  'd 
have  to  go  to  some  hotel  .  .  .  and  I  did  n't  want  to." 

"  And  quite  natural.  You  want  to  be  alone  until  you 
feel  yourself  again.  ...  I  '11  find  you  a  good  maid,  and 
make  everything  smooth  for  you.  You  're  not  to  fret 
about  anything,  and  if  you  're  troubled  you  must  come 
right  to  me." 

"  You  're  awf 'ly  kind." 

"  Don't  look  at  it  that  way,  please." 

"  How  can  I  ever  thank  you  ?  " 

"  Oh,  we  '11  talk  that  over  some  other  time."  Arlington 
removed  his  hand  from  her  shoulder  and  went  back  to 
the  table,  upon  which  he  had  deposited  a  bundle  of  news- 
papers. "  There 's  no  doubt  of  your  success,"  he  pursued 
soothingly.  "  Your  notices  are  the  finest  I  've  seen  in 
years.  I  brought  you  the  lot  of  them  in  case  you  care  —  " 

Joan  uncovered  her  face  and  looked  up  quickly.  "  Oh, 
do  let  me  see  them !  " 

Arlington  placed  the  papers  in  her  eager  hands. 

"  They  're  all  folded  with  your  reviews  uppermost." 

"  Oh,  thank  you  ever  so  much !  " 

But  in  the  act  of  opening  the  bundle,  Joan  hesitated 
and  let  it  fall  into  her  lap. 

"  There  's  nothing  about  —  ?  "  she  questioned  fearfully. 

"  No,  and  won't  be,"  he  promised.  "  Besides,  these 
were  already  on  the  presses  by  the  time  it  happened.  .  .  . 
You  need  n't  worry,"  he  resumed,  moving  to  a  window 
and  looking  abstractedly  out,  hands  clasped  behind  him; 
"  the  affair  will  be  kept  perfectly  quiet.  Everybody 's 


JOAN    THURSDAY  385 

been  seen  and  fixed,  except  the  Cardrow,  and  the  doctor 
has  already  given  us  a  certificate  of  death  under  the  knife 
—  operation  for  appendicitis,  imperatively  required  at  an 
hour's  notice.  .  .  .  By  the  way,  I  don't  suppose  you  know, 
but  —  Marbridge  did  n't  leave  any  papers  or  anything  of 
that  sort  lying  round  here,  did  he  \ " 

There  was  no  answer.  He  heard  a  paper  rustle,  and 
looking  round  saw  the  girl  with  her  attention  all  absorbed 
by  one  of  her  notices. 

"  Well,"  he  said  after  a  moment,  "  I  '11  go  and  have  a 
talk  with  that  maid,  Sara." 

"  All  right,"  she  returned  abstractedly. 

"  You  're  all  ready  to  leave  when  I  Ve  fixed  things 
up  with  her  ? " 

"  Yes,"  she  returned,  without  looking  up. 

He  hesitated  a  moment  by  the  door,  remarking  the  flush 
of  colour  that  was  deepening  in  her  cheeks;  then  with  a 
mystified  shake  of  his  head,  he  left  the  room  very  quietly. 

She  remained  alone  for  upwards  of  half  an  hour,  in 
the  course  of  which  time  she  read  all  the  reviews  once 
and  some  of  the  more  enthusiastic  twice. 

Then  carefully  folding  the  papers,  she  put  them  aside 
and  sat  thinking. 

She  thought  for  a  long  time  without  moving,  her  eyes 
shining  as  they  looked  ahead,  out  of  the  stupid  and  sordid 
turmoil  of  yesterday  into  the  golden  promise  of  tomorrow. 

She  thought  by  no  means  clearly,  with  a  brain  confused 
by  praise  and  sodden  with  fatigue;  but  above  the  welter 
of  her  thoughts,  a  single  tremendous  fact  stood  out,  solid 
and  unshakable,  like  a  mountain  towering  about  cloud- 
wrack  : 

She  was  a  Success. 


THE  END. 


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